IN THE DARKEST CORNERS
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Dean Winchester gets a little more than he bargained for during a trip to the hospital, and Sam's NOT a happy camper. Part of my "Hospital Horrors" series. Gratuitous Hurt!Dean because I need a fix. As always, review are welcome and much appreciated.
1. Open Your Eyes

This story is part of my "Hospital Horrors" series.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural. All of the cool stuff belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW.

* * *

**IN THE DARKEST CORNERS**

By: Vanessa Sgroi

_**In the Darkest Corners**_

_In the darkest corners,  
__shadows dance and writhe.  
__Sinuous and salacious.  
__Emboldened by fear.  
__Thirsting to ravenously gulp  
__the honeyed nectar of  
__loneliness and dread._

_--Vanessa Sgroi, 2008_

* * *

"Dean? Dean, c'mon, stay awake! We're almost there." Sam's worried voice filled the cool interior of the Impala, momentarily drowning out the repeated creaks of worn leather seats and soft, hitched breaths. Outside the vehicle, the evening sky hung low, populated by an abundance of persistently pregnant gray, grungy clouds that refused to release their burden of moisture beyond a few miserly, but fat, drops of rain that splat against the dusty windows.

"T-T-Tired, S-S-S-Sammeeee…" Dean's words were slurred and hardly reassuring. Despite his best efforts, his drooping eyelids finally dropped all the way closed.

Sam risked looking away from the road to glance at his brother, who lay slumped awkwardly against the passenger door. Red lines of gore ran from his forehead, down his cheek, ending at his chin where drops of crimson had first pooled in the cleft then dripped repeatedly off its point to land on his shirt, soaking into the warm cotton. The fluid was growing tacky as it dried. His clothes hid a few more injuries from Sam's eyes, but the head injury was the most worrisome.

Locking his eyes back on the road, Sam reached over and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean? Open your eyes!"

His only response this time was a barely audible moan. Dean's chin dropped toward his chest as his body went completely lax.

Sam's worry escalated tenfold. He kept his eyes peeled for the hospital sign he recalled seeing somewhere along this road while his mind drifted back to the events of the last couple of hours.

The nasty spirit they'd been hunting had taken an instant and extreme dislike to his brother. She'd ignored Sam's every attempt at distraction to concentrate on either throwing things at Dean or throwing Dean himself. It was her final throw that landed Dean where he was—slumped unconscious in the passenger seat of the Impala. He'd felt his stomach tighten when he heard the other man's head hit the corner of the doorjamb with a resounding thud only to breathe a small sigh of relief when Dean had gotten to his feet and stood grouchy and swaying, but mostly erect, while Sam had quickly finished salting and burning her remains. It was as they were making their way downstairs and toward the front door, however, that things went south. Dean had reached the bottom step and collapsed without warning. His eyes had simply rolled up in the back of his head and he went down, scaring the living hell out Sam. He'd knelt down next to his brother and had managed to rouse him enough to get him to the car with help—a lot of help.

The younger man spied a blue "Hospital" sign on the side of the road with an arrow pointing right. Sam took the corner fast, barely tapping the brake pedal.

Approaching the next intersection, a two-way stop for the cross street, Sam was just about to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the hospital perched on the corner, when a bright flash out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The driver of an oncoming car—a late-model, low-slung glittery silver Chevy Corvette—was running his stop sign. Sam slammed both feet on the brake pedal, the steady white-noise hum of the tires turning into agonized squealing as the rubber fought to find purchase. Sam's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, and he cringed, expecting to hear the screech of tortured metal on impact. The Impala came to a shuddering halt with mere inches to spare as the Corvette raced by, leaving Sam stunned and openmouthed especially when the other driver stuck his hand out his window and offered a one-fingered salute.

Shaking in reaction to the near collision and turning the air blue with invective about pompous assholes with shiny sports cars, the youngest Winchester pulled himself together and looked over at his brother.

"Shit! Dean!" Momentum had carried him forward, and he had half-slid into the footwell.

Throwing the car into Neutral, he reached over and frantically, awkwardly pulled Dean back onto the seat. After making sure his brother was settled, Sam put the car into gear and rushed on to the hospital.

Spying the sign for "Emergency", Sam tore into the parking lot and pulled up as close as he could to the entrance. One leg and arm were already out of the vehicle as he was throwing the gearshift into Park. The worried young hunter ran through the sliding glass doors and up to the Admissions desk, moving his way to the front of the small line.

"I need some help!"

The nurse gave him a dispassionate, and somewhat disgruntled, look and flicked her eyes to the end of the line.

"Sorry, but it's an emergency!" Sam's gaze darted to the people in line and then back to the nurse. "Please—my brother's out in the car. He … he hit his head and he's bleeding. I c-can't wake him up."

At his words, the woman's demeanor instantly changed. She spun on her heel and disappeared through a doorway behind her. Seconds later, two Patient Care Technicians and a triage nurse rushed out from behind a set of double doors to the right of the Admissions desk.

Sam joined them as they hurried out the entrance and to the parked Impala. He yanked the passenger door open and reluctantly stood back, allowing the two men to extract his brother's limp, bloody form from the car and lay him out on the gurney.

"Can you tell me what happened?" asked the nurse as they rushed back into the building. The scuffed black-and-white floor tiles blurred underneath the spinning wheels of the gurney.

Sam's mind raced for a plausible explanation, finally blurting, "We—my b-brother and I—we're flipping a house out on Old Stone Road. We were out there doing some repairs and he—D-Dean—fell. I-I didn't see it because he was upstairs. I was on the main floor and h-heard a-a loud bang and him yell." Sam silently chided himself for stuttering and hoped the medical professionals chalked it up to stress.

"Was he conscious when you found him?"

"Yeah, he—he was walking and talking. Then he passed out. But only for a minute or two. I-I helped him to the car. Then on the way here, he passed out again."

"Does he have any other injuries you know of?"

"He was favoring his left side. Might've hurt his ribs. I-I dunno what else."

They reached the curtain to one of the exam cubicles and the nurse held up a hand, pressing it lightly against Sam's chest. "I'm sorry. You're going to have to stay out here. There's a waiting room just around the corner. And we'll need you to fill out some paperwork."

"But…"

She disappeared behind the curtain before Sam could sputter any more in the way of protest. Seconds later a tall, middle-aged man in blue scrubs and a white lab coat, dark hair tousled from restless fingers, cut in front of Sam and pushed into the cubicle, the metal rings clinking as he yanked the curtain closed.

Sam dropped his forehead against the wall and took a couple of deep breaths to help steady is wobbly knees before making his way back to the admissions area and the indicated waiting room, stopping first at the desk for the paperwork. The young hunter, gripping the clipboard tightly, finally sank down into a tattered-looking chair in the corner. He spent several seconds staring blankly at the empty boxes on the form. _Name?_ _What name should I use?_ With a sigh, Sam pulled out his wallet to find their most current insurance ID card.

_Sam Stanley._

He wrote "Dean Stanley" in the name box, knowing his brother's wallet carried an identical card. Sam was halfway through completing the form when a little girl's quavery query caught his attention.

"Mommy? Why is that man bleeding?"

"Ssh, honey, it's not polite to ask such things. Now sit down."

"But Mommy—he's bleeding all over his papers! Can't we give him a Band-Aid?"

Curious, Sam glanced around the room but didn't see anyone bleeding. He shrugged and his gaze finally settled on the little blonde girl who'd spoken. She was standing near the chairs directly across from where he was sitting, and she was staring—at him! The second he made eye contact, the little girl inched forward. Her deep blue, intensely serious eyes locked on his face.

"Do you need a Band-Aid? Maybe my mommy kin get you a Snoopy one." Her solemn whisper barely reached his ears.

Sam was about to tell her he didn't need a Band-Aid since he didn't have a cut when he noticed that there was indeed blood smudged on the paperwork in his hands. He frowned as he looked for its source, noticing first the tear in the sleeve of his sage green shirt and then finally locating the red and ragged gouge trailing down his left forearm, ending across the fleshy part of this thumb. It was still sluggishly bleeding.

_Damn, I think that's gonna need stitches._

The tall, lanky hunter blinked at the wound in bemusement. The throb and sting of the wound had been masked by his consuming concern for his brother. The act of gazing at it apparently tore away the mask, and the pain returned with a vengeance.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the little girl. "It's okay. The doctor will fix me right up."

"Will he give you a Snoopy Band-Aid?"

Sam offered the little four-year-old blonde a quick smile. "I'm sure he will."

"Anna-Marie, leave the poor man alone," scolded the little girl's mother.

At her mother's reprimand, Anna-Marie wiggled her fingers in a goodbye wave at the tall man with the pretty eyes. She climbed into the chair next to her mother and sat but continued to watch him with a small frown of concern.

Sam was just about to return his attention to the paperwork on his lap when he suddenly heard a commotion and loud screaming coming from down the hallway. He immediately recognized the rasp of his brother's voice.

"NO! NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

TBC…


	2. A Multitude of Restraints

_Wasteland_

_Through terror-drenched and blind eyes,  
__I see naught but a vast echoing wasteland—  
__an endless leaden landscape of loneliness.  
__Hellish circlets of despair bind me securely  
__to  
__my  
__pain._

_--Vanessa Sgroi, 2008_

* * *

A deep and unforgiving absence of light surrounded him, smothered him. The rock solid bed beneath him offered no comfort—the darkness no reprieve. His only awareness at first was a vicious throbbing in his head and along his left side. Then slowly, a jumbled buzz of nonsense noise filled his ears—gradually sharpening and coalescing into a mixture of words, commands but none issued by a familiar or welcome voice.

_Voice? Who's voice? Dad's? No, no not Dad. Sam? Sam's voice. Where was __**his**__ voice? Where was he?_

He twitched and shifted restlessly on the exam table and exhaled a soft moan.

_Sam?_

Cold air ghosted across his skin as his many layers fell away. Leaving him exposed and vulnerable. A multitude of hard, unforgiving fingers poked and prodded, igniting small fires of pain wherever they touched.

A deep voice came from somewhere above him. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

Dean heard the words but they held no sway. The relentless throbbing in his head was far more commandeering. His eyelids felt weighted and far too heavy to open. He sensed no payout in making an effort to comply, so he didn't.

"Open your eyes."

The command worked a little better, triggering a deeply ingrained learned response in the wounded hunter. Dean struggled to defy the seemingly invisible force cementing his leaden eyelids in place, managing to raise them to half mast for a second or two before allowing them to slam closed once more.

Dean battled with the gauzy curtain veiling coherent thought as his mind raced to assemble the pieces of this current, and painful, jigsaw puzzle.

Roughened fingertips pulled back his right eyelid and a lightning white beam seared through his skull. He tried to jerk away but was unsuccessful. When the procedure was repeated with his left eye, he gripped the sides of the bed, knuckles whitening as he fought back against sudden intense nausea.

Before Dean managed to come close to conquering it, the cloying, coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils and the internal sparring match instantly became a losing battle. His stomach muscles tightened viciously, and he gagged against the acidic bile surging up his esophagus.

"Roll him!" the same deep voice yelled.

Dean felt the hands turn him on his left side and just in time too. He unceremoniously began to heave, the vomit ejecting with such force it splattered hard against the floor quite a distance from the examination table. Involuntary tears leaked from the corners of his tightly-closed eyes and streaked down Dean's pale face, bisecting some of the bruises beginning to color the top edge of one cheek.

When the miserable retching ended, numerous hands resettled him, not ungently, on the table. Behind his closed lids, snapshots marred with copious amounts of crimson blood and stark expressions of pain filled Dean's confused mind.

_Sammy? Oh, God. Sammy?_

He squirmed restlessly on the exam table as one image tumbled into his mind and froze. His brother, pale and limp, bonelessly dropping to his knees in the cold Wyoming mud. His own hands covered in hot, viscous fluid as it spurted uncontrollably from a fatal wound. He opened his eyes halfway, squinting to try and bring the figures around him into focus.

_NO! Sammy! No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no._

His shifting became more pronounced as his agitation ratcheted up.

"Sam?" his brother's name came out as a guttural half growl, half shout. "Saaammy! Noooo!"

A firm hand rested on his shoulder. "Sir, you need to calm down. Calm down. You're going to be all right. You're in the hospital."

More hands pushed at him, a rush of unfathomable words tumbled into his ears to be lost in the cacophonic distress swirling through his mind. Dean began to fight in earnest in a panic to find, to help, to save his brother. Dean arched his back and kicked out. His hands curled into fists, and he punched wildly into the air, pleased when he felt one of them connect.

Unfamiliar, unwelcome hands pushed down more determinedly and his anxiety skyrocketed accordingly.

"NO! NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

_**SN SN SN**_

His brother's yelling immediately brought Sam to his feet and set him racing down the hallway to where he'd left his brother a short time ago. He pushed inside the cubicle and stopped dead at the sight that greeted his eyes.

A half dozen harried and harassed-looking medical personnel surrounded his brother who was fighting tooth-and-nail against them.

"Get the fuck off me! I need . . . I n-n-need to find . . . Sam!" Dean's yells had taken on a keening, pleading quality. "Saaaa-um!"

His back was arching off the bed as four of them attempted to hold down his flailing arms and legs. The remaining two had pulled out padded restraints and were in the process of attaching them.

Sam hurried forward. "No, wait!" His heart thudded painfully at the idea of his brother being restrained. He couldn't stand it.

The doctor's head whipped in his direction, a scowl darkening his face. "You shouldn't be in here," he snapped. His bottom lip was puffy and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. It was obvious one of Dean's fists had connected. The muscles on the doctor's arms strained as pushed down on Dean's upper arm and elbow to hold it in place.

"Please—don't restrain him."

"For his safety and ours, I—"

Sam cut him off. "I understand. But please, I'm Sam—his brother. I'm who he's calling for. I think he'll calm down if you let me talk to him."

The doctor hesitated. The other medical personnel tightened the restraints around Dean's ankles, hobbling him.

"Please…"

The man finally nodded and motioned him forward but kept a firm hold on the man on the table as did the nurse across from him.

"Dean?"

His brother's eyes were rolling around in their sockets as they searched the room. His breathing was fast and harsh, his chest expanding and contracting in rapid pants. He was too incoherent with fear and dread and didn't immediately recognize or respond to Sam's voice.

"Dean, c'mon man, you need to calm down. I don't want them to have to keep you in restraints."

"Saaaa-um!" this was issued in a hoarse, desperate moan.

Sam reached out and laid a hand lightly on Dean's forehead. "Dean, it's okay. I'm right here, man. I'm right here."

Dean's entire body, tense and taut, quivered, muscles locked into place and still ready to continue the fight. Sam pressed his hand against his brother's forehead just a little harder. "See? I'm right here."

The touch and the words finally penetrated the veil of confusion and terror, and a shiver raced through Dean's body. He suddenly relaxed, every muscle loosening, and he stilled. Dean turned his head and squinted at the tall figure hovering over him.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, bro, it's me."

"Not…dead?"

The younger Winchester swallowed against the lump in his throat at his brother's relieved and hopeful tone. "No, no, I'm here—alive and well." He moved his hand from his older sibling's forehead to his hand, its fingers still curled in a tightly held fist. He gripped the fist tightly.

Dean's breathing hitched and slowed just a little.

"Dean, you need to let these people take care of you. Okay? You're in the hospital and they're gonna take a look at your injuries. No more fighting. I'm all right." Sam was convinced that his brother's combativeness was concussion-fueled and spurred on by worry—and terror—for him.

Under Sam's hand, the older Winchester's clenched fingers relaxed and fell open.

He looked at the doctor with wide puppy dog eyes in place. "Can you take them off now? He won't fight you anymore."

Dr. Daniel Beck gazed first at the tall young man whose longish hair was falling into his red-rimmed hazel eyes and then down at his patient, weighing the truth of the words. He let go of the arm he'd been holding and nodded for the others to do the same. "Undo the restraints too."

On the other side of the exam table, Sam quietly said, "Dean, I'm going to step back so they can do their work." Sam tightened his hold for a second and then let go, preparing to do just as he'd said. Before he could step away, however, Dean's hand fisted in his shirt and he saw the older man struggle to partially sit up.

"S-S-Sammy, I … I …"

The stress and strain of confusion, terror, grief, and fight finally caught up with Dean and his abused body. His remaining words were lost as his bloodshot eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest on Sam's injured arm.

TBC…


	3. Twenty Stitches in Time

**A/N:** I apologize if this chapter is a little slow and boring. Also, I'm not a medical expert by any means. I tried to be as realistic as possible, but any errors on that front are mine and mine alone. Hopefully, you'll all enjoy regardless. _(((( Fingers crossed ))))_

* * *

Gray, grim countenance  
A mask built with fortitude  
Hiding such secrets

--Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

* * *

Sam couldn't help the gasp that crossed his lips when Dean's forehead connected with the cut on his arm, and he paled a little at the abrupt flash of reawakened pain.

The doctor looked at him quizzically as he helped ease his patient back down on the table. It was then he noticed the blood coating the side of the younger man's hand. "You're injured too?"

"It's nothing. Just a cut," mumbled Sam.

"Looks like a little more than nothing. Go have it looked at."

"But Dean ne—"

Beck wiped the trickle of blood off his chin, discarded his soiled latex gloves, and deftly snapped on a new pair. He then turned his attention to his patient and restarted his exam. "Nurse Maybrooke, please escort this gentleman to another cubicle. Find Dr. Ward and have him take a look at his arm."

"But—"

Daniel spared Sam a quick glance. "Look—Sam, is it?—go get that taken care of. Your brother's in good hands. I promise to come and get you if I need to."

The tall hunter bit his bottom lip and reluctantly allowed himself to be escorted from the room. He followed the young nurse to a cubicle at the end of the corridor. Once Sam entered behind her, she pulled closed the brightly-colored, geometrically-patterned curtain with a practiced flick of her wrist.

"Why don't you have a seat up there and take off your outer shirt," she instructed quietly, pointing to the exam table. "I'll let Dr. Ward know you're in here, and he should be with you shortly." As she spoke, she laid out a suture kit already convinced of the need for stitches.

"Thank you, Nurse…Maybrooke?"

"Just call me Geri."

"Geri. Thank you. I don't mean to be so…"

"No, no. I understand. You're worried about your brother. Dr. Beck was right though. He's in good hands. Dr. Beck is one of the best."

With that assurance, Geri ducked out of the exam room, leaving Sam alone with his spinning thoughts and outright worry. He tensed when the overhead light began to buzz and flicker. Sam slipped off the table and stood ready, watching and waiting for other familiar signs to manifest. When nothing untoward happened after a few moments, he realized it really was just a dying fluorescent bulb and relaxed slightly. He looked up at the offending light and scowled at it, as if it had purposely played a morbid joke on him.

With a grunt, he sat back down on the cushioned table, slipping off his long-sleeved green shirt. Sam offhandedly examined the ragged rent in the sleeve, the bloodstain surrounding it, and silently mourned the possible loss of another piece of clothing. He then mentally kicked himself for worrying about something so stupid when his brother was lying seriously injured a few rooms down the hall.

His latest bout of self-recrimination was interrupted when a young man just a fraction of an inch over Sam's own 6' 4" and dressed in maroon scrubs pushed back the curtain with a clatter and stepped into the room. With two such overly tall men now in the space, the cubicle seemed to shrink in size. The man smiled as he approached.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Ward."

Sam looked at him wide-eyed. People often said HE looked young for his age, but this Dr. Ward—man, despite his impressive height he looked like he was about 10 years old.

Seeing the questioning look in Sam's eyes, the doctor's grin grew a bit wider. "Yes, I know I look young for my age. Yes, I'm really a doctor. And, no, I wasn't a child prodigy like the fictitious Doogie Howser."

At this, Sam couldn't help but chuckle. Obviously he wasn't the only one to ever be shocked by the doctor's appearance. "Sorry," he stuck out his good hand offering a shake, "I'm Sam."

"Well, Sam, let's see what we have here." Dr. Ward gently pulled Sam's injured arm toward him and rotated it, examining the long, jagged cut from all angles. He whistled. "Wow, you did a number on your arm. What happened?"

While the doctor cleaned the laceration, Sam repeated the story he told earlier about he and Dean working on flipping a house. "…so I'm not sure exactly how I did this. I was more worried about my brother."

"Who's down the hall being treated, huh?"

"Yeah." Sam swallowed hard as worry surged again.

Mike Ward lifted his gaze from the wound and focused on his patient's face. "I'm sure it'll be okay. He's in—"

"—good hands," Sam rolled his eyes and finished the doctor's statement for him. "Yeah, I've heard that. Is that like your hospital motto or something?"

The doctor started injecting Lidocaine into the area around the wound, causing Sam to squirm a little at the sting. "Nah. I think an insurance company already has dibs on that motto. Ours is something much more pretentious than that," Mike grinned. "Now we'll just let the anesthetic take effect and I'll get you stitched right up. Have you had a tetanus shot in the last 10 years?"

"Yeah. About seven or eight years ago I think."

The doctor nodded. "I'm gonna go ahead and give you another booster just to be on the safe side." Mike glanced at his watch and stood up, pulling off his latex gloves. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Once alone, Sam closed his eyes, pulled in a couple of deep breaths, and felt weariness settle onto his shoulders like a cloak. It had been a long few days; relentless pressure eating away at _both_ Winchesters despite what Dean wanted everyone to think. This job was to have been a quick and simple one. A diversion for Dean more than anything else. Yet Winchester luck had held true.

When Dr. Ward returned to the cubicle some fifteen minutes later, he found his patient deep in thought with an intense and rather grim look on his face. He hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Well, your arm should be plenty numb by now. Why don't we get that bad boy stitched up?"

Sam reached up with his good hand and rubbed his forehead with an open palm, willing away the slight headache that had begun to throb behind his eyes. The youngest Winchester sighed and said, "Sounds good to me. I need to get back to my brother."

"Hey, I checked on him for you on my way back. Dr. Beck was stitching him up and then planning on sending him down to Radiology for some x-rays."

"Is he awake?"

"No, he's still unconscious. Must have been one hell of a fall he took." Mike looked at him with the barest hint of suspicion in his eyes.

The doctor wheeled a small tray table to the edge of the exam bed and quickly covered it with a sterile blue paper covering. Once Sam laid his arm down, he laid another sterile covering over the arm. This one had a rectangular hole in its center which left only the wound exposed so he could suture it. Mike deftly donned a new pair of latex gloves, carefully fitting each finger in place.

Saying nothing in reply to the doctor's implied query, Sam watched as he threaded the curved needle and began suturing, tensing automatically as the needle pierced his skin being far more used to having this done without the benefit of anesthesia. He winced at the familiar tug and pull of the 4-0 monofilament nylon as it weaved its way through his skin, realigning and closing the edges of the wound.

"You, my friend, are in luck. I have a bit of a magic touch when it comes to placing stitches. The key is the size of the bites. You won't even have much of a scar." As Mike smoothly pulled another stitch in place, he glanced at his patient who remained quiet and watchful, almost mesmerized watching the procedure. Returning his gaze to the wound, he continued, "Now your brother on the other hand, well, he got stuck with Danny's suturing. Now HE'LL have a hell of a scar."

At that, a slight scowl settled between Sam's eyes as he turned his attention to the doctor, but after a moment he gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Dean always says chicks dig scars. I just wish he didn't have to prove it."

"Hey, don't sweat it. Actually, I was kidding. It's kind of an inside joke—almost a competition—between me and Dr. Beck as to who throws better sutures. His are nearly as good as mine, I promise." Mike smiled to try to alleviate some of the tension he could feel radiating off the man seated before him.

Sam was about to reply when an overhead announcement caught his attention.

"…_owner of a black 1967 Chevy Impala, Ohio license plate number SNV 0932, parked in the Emergency entrance, please return to your vehicle immediately."_

As the announcement began to repeat, Sam swore. "Shit! The car! I forgot about the car." Sam inched forward as if to stand.

Mike held him back. "Uh uh. Wait a minute. I'm almost done. It'll be fine." Carefully setting the needle down, the doctor stood and approached the curtain, nudging it aside with his elbow. He glanced up and down the hall, finally spying a nurse's aid leaving another cubicle. "Hey, Cheryl? Can you please go to the entry doors and tell whoever from Security that the owner of that Chevy will be there in about ten minutes. If he gives you a hard time, have him come see me."

He returned to his stool and sat down resuming his task. "So—a 1967 Impala, huh? Sweet car! I've a '69 Dodge Charger sitting in my girlfriend's garage waiting to be fully restored."

Sam's mouth tipped up at the corners. "Yeah. Actually, it's my brother's car. His baby. Man, you should hear him talk to her. I swear sometimes he needs to get a room to be alone with her. He practically croons to her."

"How could he not? Like mine, she's all luscious curves and lean lines. And on good days, she all but purrs."

The young hunter groaned good-naturedly and covered his eyes with his free hand. "Oh, God, you're one of them!"

"Them?"

"Classic muscle car crazy people—_don't tell my brother I said that_. I can't believe how many of 'em we run into when we're on the road."

Dr. Ward chuckled. "Guilty as charged. Sadly, I haven't had a lot of time to work on my own baby. Putting in too many hours right here. I have to say though your brother has fine taste in cars. Maybe I can take a look at that Impala if I get a chance." He finished putting in the last stitch—the twentieth—and knotted it off, putting in a couple of extra throws to ensure good knot security. "Done." He gently dabbed along the wound first with saline soaked sterile gauze then dry gauze, tossing both down on the tray table when he was finished.

Sam immediately stood, anxious to get the Impala moved from its precarious position. Having security sniffing around a car with an arsenal in its trunk was never a good thing.

"Whoa there. Hang on for just another minute or two, Sam." Mike quickly applied some Bacitracin to the stitched laceration and bandaged the arm with non-adhesive dressings. That finished, he held up a loaded syringe. The tetanus booster. "Last thing, I promise." He watched his patient make a face as he rolled up the short sleeve of his t-shirt. Mike quickly administered the injection, knowing all the while how much these particular shots stung. In fact, it was likely both of Sam's arms were going to be pretty painful for a day or two.

"Keep that clean and dry. You should come back if you see any signs of infection. The stitches should come out in about 7 days. Want some Tylenol before you go?"

Sam nodded and gratefully accepted the pills when they were handed to him. He swallowed them before Mike even handed him the little paper cup of water. Waving his thanks, Sam left the exam cubicle at a slow jog, heading straight out the door where the Impala sat waiting. A very impatient and irritated-looking security guard was standing next to her with his foot propped up on the bumper.

TBC…


	4. War Path

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. My muse decided to take a vacation and wouldn't listen no matter how much I begged and pleaded.

I did my best with the medical bits but please forgive any errors therein.

* * *

War Path

Beneath the soft eyes,  
an unwitting warrior.  
A focused battle of wills.

Uncompromising  
in defense of hearth and home,  
a victor in the making.

—Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

* * *

Beck finished the last two stitches in the longish line marring his patient's side and sat up straight with a sigh, wincing as he rotated his neck and it cracked. He dropped the used suturing materials onto the tray and pushed the wheeled chair away from the examination table. It squealed mightily at the movement. Daniel rolled the latex gloves off his hands, dropping them into the red hazardous waste basket.

"Geri, let's get Radiology up here. I want a full skull series and chest x-ray STAT. Let's get film on the abdomen and right wrist too. If he starts to come around at all, find me. I'll be with the brother."

Daniel pushed his way out of the cubicle, rubbing at this forehead with the palm of his hand before pinching the bridge of his nose. A slight headache was beginning to throb behind his eyes. He headed down the hall, making a beeline for the small staff lounge and the always full coffee pot therein. After pouring himself half a mug, Daniel scrounged in one of the drawers by the sink and came up with a foil packet containing two Advil. He was swallowing them with a swig of hot brew when the door to the lounge opened, admitting Mike Ward.

"Hey, Mikey. You done with the brother?"

"Yeah, a few minutes ago."

"He in the waiting room? I should go talk with him."

"Actually he's outside moving his car—I mean his brother's car. Did you hear the page for the '67 Impala? Belongs to your patient."

Beck whistled. "Sweet car. Bet your dyin' to get a look at it, aren't you?"

Mike grinned. Danny knew him well. "Of course. How is your patient anyway?"

"I think he'll be fine, but he's not gonna feel fine for a good long while. They're getting some films now. In fact, I should go get a look at them before I talk to his brother." Daniel paused. "Hey, Mikey?"

"Yeah?"

Daniel raised the mug to his lips and took a sip, relishing the surprisingly good brew. Geri must have made this pot. "What do you make of their story?"

"What do you mean?"

"You buy it? How they got hurt?"

Dr. Ward was quiet for a moment as he thought back to the sketchy details Sam had uttered during their brief interaction.

"No, not entirely, I guess. Why?"

"Heck if I know. Just a feeling."

"Enough of a feeling to call someone about?"

Beck swirled the remaining coffee in the mug and stared at the resultant miniature whirlpool. When it stopped, he leveled his gaze at his friend and colleague and tipped up the corner of his mouth. "Nah."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam's steps faltered slightly just outside the door as he took in the security guard's dour expression. The man's eyebrows were beetled over frigid gray eyes and a veiny, bulbous nose. His too-red lips were rather prissily pursed below his bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. Deciding an apologetic approach was best, he hurried forward. "I-I'm sorry, I'll—"

" 'Bout time you got here. Few more minutes and I was gonna have it towed."

"Towed? But I didn't mean to le—"

The security guard—G. Trumbull according to his name badge—exerted pressure on the foot resting on the Impala's bumper, setting the car to rocking on its springs and again cut off Sam's attempt at an apology. "Always amazes me that _in-dee-vid-jewls_ like you think they can just park their pieces of shit anywhere they like and we're supposed to just let 'em be 'cause the high-and-mighty _dock-ters_ say so."

The tall hunter abruptly stopped his forward motion, shocked at the other man's bold belligerence. Holding on to one thin and final shred of patience, Sam spoke again, just managing to keep his voice calm. "Look—my brother was badly hurt—bleeding—and I had to get him inside fast. I just…didn't have time to get back out here. In fact, I was hurt too and they had to stitch me up." Sam waved his bandaged arm for emphasis.

"So?" The guard muttered insolently and removed the toothpick he'd been gnawing on from the corner of his mouth, cleared his throat, and spit—clearly aiming for a spot on the Impala's bumper. Trumbull's scowl blackened further when the globule missed and hit his own shoe.

When it looked like the guard might try to hock up another mouthful and launch it, Sam's final filament of patience sizzled and snapped. He stalked forward at a rapid clip, his mouth tipping up at the corners in a feral grin when he saw Trumbull quickly remove his foot from the bumper and scramble back a couple of steps. The tall young hunter stopped only when he was toe to toe with the much smaller man. He leaned forward slightly, purposely invading the man's personal space.

"First of all, this car is a freakin' classic and is in no way a piece of shit." Sam leaned in a little more and watched as the man blinked nervously. His voice was barely above a whisper though the tone of menace was loud and clear. "Second, you damn well better keep your spit—and your hands and feet—off my brother's car 'cause, man I'm tellin' you, if he finds out you dared to touch his baby, well, let's just say he's very protective." Sam let his eyes go flat and cold as he looked down at the man. "Come to think of it—so am I."

Sam watched impassively as the puffed up popinjay deflated a bit and took one more step back.

"Just get that . . . car . . . outta the "No Parking" zone and fast," Trumball snarled past rage-twisted lips.

With that final order, the guard sidestepped and pushed past Sam, bumping into him hard with his shoulder as he went by, probably in a misguided attempt to knock him off balance. Sam didn't move an inch except to turn his head and watch the guard strut away.

With a deep sigh, Sam made an effort to let go of his anger and ran his unbandaged hand across his face before reaching in his pocket for the keys to the Impala. When his fingers came up empty after a millisecond of fruitless searching, it dawned on him that he'd never pulled them out of the ignition. He'd been too focused on getting medical help for his brother. He bit back a groan knowing that Dean would seriously kill him for being so careless with their car—cum—arsenal. Deciding it was definitely one of those things Dean would never have to know, Sam slid into the driver's seat and pulled away from the emergency entrance, seeking out a parking spot in as secluded a space as he could find in the hospital lot.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Daniel Beck pushed the x-ray into the light box and studied it closely for a few moments before pointing with his index finger. "You see it? Right there."

"Yeah, I see it," responded Mike, "A hairline skull fracture then."

Beck nodded and clicked the remaining x-rays into place. "A hairline skull fracture." He tapped the second film a couple of times. "And two, maybe three, cracked ribs on the right around the same area as the lac I stitched. The abdomen looks clear despite some deep bruising. Looks like his wrist is badly sprained, not broken."

Both doctors turned when the cubicle's metal curtain hooks rattled and saw Sam slip into the room. The younger man's eyes immediately locked on his brother and the doctors saw his worried expression deepen when he saw his sibling was still unconscious.

"Sam?" Mike Ward called to garner his attention. He smiled reassuringly when Sam's gaze finally turned to him. "Dr. Beck was just filling me in on your brother's—Dean's—condition."

Sam turned his attention to Dr. Beck. "And?"

"He's got a few cracked ribs, a laceration that took 20 stitches to close, some extensive bruising, and a sprained wrist. I'd say a moderate concussion too given that he's got a hairline skull fracture. I'm going to keep him at least overnight for observation. Maybe a little longer depending on how things look."

Sam swallowed hard as the doctor ran through the list of Dean's injuries. They weren't the worst he'd ever had but that fact did nothing to ease the youngest Winchester's worry. "The concussion—the hairline skull fracture—is that why he's still out?"

Daniel inclined his head. "Head injuries can be tricky things. After examining him, I'd say it's a combination of the concussion, his other injuries, plus believe it or not exhaustion and even slight case of dehydration. I think his body just said 'enough is enough' for a little while."

Sam's gaze flicked to Dean and then back to Dr. Beck. He'd no doubt the doctor was correct in his diagnosis. Dean wasn't sleeping well lately and he doubted beer and coffee went a long way to keeping him well hydrated, especially when they were low on cash and meals were somewhat sporadic. "But he'll be okay?"

"He'll find life a little painful and unpleasant for the next little while, but with some rest, he should make a complete recovery."

The tall man allowed himself a small eye roll. "Great. Dean and rest go together like chocolate and Spam."

As the last word crossed Sam's lips, a low moan from the man on the examination table grabbed their attention.

TBC …


	5. Do You Know Where You Are?

A/N: So sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I hit a snag and just couldn't write around it--or thought I couldn't. After a bit, I finally just decided to write on and "damn the consequences" if you will. I don't think it came out too terrible.

Thanks to everyone who's still interested and reading this one.

* * *

Banishing Shadows

Pale cheeks, dark-ringed eyes  
laden with countless shadows.  
Life-honed planes and clefts  
transformed by a simple smile.  
World weariness melts away.

--Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

* * *

Ascent from darkness this time around came with less bone-rattling terror over Sam but the same amount of fuzzy confusion if not more. He could hear the low rumble of voices from somewhere nearby yet the words were a mere collection of syllables—not one stood out clearly enough for him to actually understand.

The beginnings of awareness brought to him two things. First was pain. His side and abdomen and wrist were throbbing with every beat of his heart, but it was the ache in his head that was outright vicious. Despite the pain, Dean thought he recognized the intense tone of his little brother's voice which meant Sam was here—wherever here was—with him.

He tried to concentrate, to make out what his sibling was saying, but it increased the intensity of the throb in his head to nearly unbearable proportions. Dean shifted on the thin padding of the exam table only slightly and gritted his teeth, biting back nausea. He couldn't, however, stifle a moan.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Hearing the moan, Sam immediately took a step toward the bed but was brought up short by a restraining hand on his arm. He looked at Dr. Beck questioningly and the other man motioned for him to wait. The tall man shifted his stance and reluctantly dipped his chin in curt acknowledgement and watched as the doctor approached the exam table.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

A few seconds passed before Dean felt a warm hand press against his shoulder, and he struggled to lift his heavy eyelids. Blinking rapidly against the supernova light that now drilled its way into his brain, he gasped at the resultant pain.

"Can you tell me your name?"

The voice was gruff and gentle but insistent. Dean reluctantly rolled his eyes toward the speaker. The man hovering over him was mostly a blur, and he shrank away, apprehension further tightening his features. The fingers on his shoulder squeezed lightly.

"It's all right. You're going to be fine. Can you tell me your name?"

The room felt cold, frigid air eddying around his exposed skin, thin sheet doing nothing to keep the chill at bay. A shiver crawled across his body leaving goose bumps in its wake. His throat felt dry, tight and a sick, sour taste coated his tongue and cheeks. He swallowed against the sensations. "D-D-Dean." He stopped with his first name, unsure what to say next.

"How about your date of birth?"

"Umm—" a particularly harsh throb of pain from his injuries forced another gasp from him, and Dean shifted restlessly on the bed. "Umm, I think—J-January? Twenty—um—something."

Dr. Beck turned his gaze to Sam for confirmation. When he nodded, Daniel looked back down at his patient.

"Okay, Dean. Do you know where you are?"

An uncertain frown skittered across his face. "H-Hospital?"

"Do you know why you're here? Do you remember what happened to you?"

Phantom echoes of outraged otherworldly screeching curled through his brain, pinging relentlessly off the confines of his skull, but the details stayed lost in the darkling mist blanketing coherent thought. He closed his eyes tight and cast about for an explanation, the brittle sound of shattering glass and unforgiving thud of flesh meeting immovable object joined the screeching in his head. The whys and wherefores remained a mystery and the unholy internal concert made his head throb even more. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was about to explode.

Dean gave up, reluctantly opened his eyes again and glanced at the white-coated doctor before his blurry gaze drifted around the room. Two (or was it four?) tall figures in the corner caught his attention. The hunter squinted, trying to bring the individuals into focus.

"S-Sam?"

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Hearing Dean mumble his name, Sam looked at Dr. Beck and started forward after getting his nod of approval. A page for Mike Ward sounded overhead and the doctor slipped out of the room unnoticed except for the clinking of the metal curtain hooks.

Sam leaned against the edge of the exam table, placing his fingers on Dean's uninjured arm. He smiled when he immediately felt some of the tenseness leave his brother's body at his touch.

"Hey, Dean. It's good to see you awake, man."

"Hurt."

"Yeah, dude, I know it hurts, I think the doc's gonna give you something for the pain."

Dean frowned and twitched his arm under Sam's touch. "N-No. _You_ hurt?"

Shaking his head, Sam huffed out a half-exasperated breath. _Is he ever NOT in big brother mode? No. And I wouldn't know how to act if ever he was. _"No, I'm okay." _No reason to tell him about the stitches._

"Wha' happened?"

The youngest Winchester took a deep breath and proceeded with the story he'd given the hospital personnel on arrival, hoping that Dean was coherent enough to going along. "We were at that house out on Old Stone Road. Renovating it so we could flip it. You got hurt while doing some stuff upstairs, remember?"

Dean looked at him quizzically, a furrow of bemusement and incomprehension settling between his unfocused green eyes. Sam's words didn't match up with the jumbled cacophony lacing through the cotton wool in his head, but he was suddenly too dizzy and tired to care. Despite it all and trusting his younger brother completely, Dean murmured a simple "okay" before closing his eyes against the room's lurching, merry-go-round spin. His hands fisted on the sides of the examination table, gripping it tightly.

"Dean?"

"Mmmm?"

"You okay?" _Yeah, right—he's just freakin' fine—what a stupid question. I'm an idiot._

Sam jumped when, without warning, Dean's eyes flew open and he struggled to sit upright. He saw that his older sibling's already pasty complexion took on an even unhealthier tinge of yellow-green.

"S-S-Sick," Dean gasped.

Daniel was in motion before Dean was finished gasping out the word. He shoved a pink emesis basin under his patient's chin, relinquishing his hold when he saw Sam grab for it.

Grimacing as he watched his brother heaved violently into the plastic container, Sam fought to keep his own stomach in place and kept up a steady, if ineffective, stream of comfort phrases meant to ease Dean's misery. When Dean was done, Sam discarded the basin and helped him resettle on the exam bed. Dean, sweaty and drained, moaned and closed his eyes. Grabbing a tissue, Sam wiped a trickle of biley vomit and spittle off of his brother's chin. The younger man then reached out a trembling hand and laid his palm against Dean's damp forehead half expecting him to jerk away. When his brother actually seemed to lean into the touch, Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Sam, I'm going to step out and make arrangements for a few more tests and to have him admitted at least overnight. If you need anything, hit the call button."

"Wait! Can he have something for pain?"

Daniel paused for a second and then said, "I'll send a nurse in with something. Unfortunately, I can't give him anything too strong because of the head injury."

A few minutes after Dr. Beck left the cubicle; a young male nurse in navy scrubs came in, added something to Dean's IV, nodded at Sam, and left without saying anything at all.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Pausing in the busy hallway to make a note in the patient's chart, Daniel noticed Mike leaving a cubicle at the end of the corridor. A volley of creative invective sounded from behind the curtain. He glanced at the room Mike had just vacated and raised his eyebrows in silent query as the other doctor approached. They walked down the corridor together nurses' station, their Crocs squeaking slightly on the waxed floor.

Mike grimaced and ruefully shook his head. "Looks like Travis Carmichael, Franklin High School's soccer star extraordinaire, broke his ankle during practice for tomorrow's big game. We've got two pissed off, overprotective parents and one miserable coach out in the waiting room."

"Ouch. I have to admit I'm glad you pulled that one."

"Yeah, needless to say, Travis is none to happy right now. I tried to assure him there's always next year, and he stopped just short of throwing a punch at me. So what're you thinking about Sam's brother?"

"He's partially oriented x3, but still confused, still has impaired vision and nausea. I'm going to ask Dr. Singh for a neurology consult just to be on the safe side."

Mike nodded in approval. "Good idea."

Having reached the desk, Daniel Beck stopped and smiled at the middle-aged brunette tapping away at the computer. "Lydia, can you please call up to the fourth floor and arrange for a bed for our newest overnight guest—Dean Stanley."

Lydia returned the man's smile. "Yes, of course."

"Thank you. And when you're finished with that, get a message to Dr. Singh that I need him to do a consult." Leaving the medical chart on the counter, Daniel looked at his watch and turned back to Mike. "I'm off duty in an hour. You're on tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Dean Stanley's in good hands then."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Ursula Perdue, Head Nurse in the Adult Short Stay Unit, hung up the telephone receiver with a bang and a scowl. Unwilling to move from her perch behind the counter of the nurses' station, she settled for looking around until she spied a black-clad Patient Care Technician. _Ha! Patient Care Technician—pfft—just a fancy name for what we used to call orderlies._ She summoned the stocky girl over.

"Yes, Ursula?"

When the head nurse treated her to her trademark murderous glare, the girl quickly corrected herself, stuttering, "I-I m-mean, yes, Nurse Perdue?"

"Make sure Room 4-22 is ready for a patient coming up from the emergency room."

"Room 4-22? You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I rarely, if ever, speak otherwise."

"But—that room—it's just so…"

"But nothing! There is absolutely nothing wrong with Room 4-22. Now see to it that it's ready. Dean Stanley will be on his way up shortly."

The young girl dropped her gaze. "Yes, ma'am."

TBC…


	6. Weight of the World

Weight of the World

Solemn, somber weight  
Rests heavy on my shoulders  
True legacy of worry.

A burden lifted  
Often by such simple things  
Opportunities to breathe.

—Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

* * *

Sam slouched in a battered, but surprisingly comfortable, chair in the cafeteria of Hollister Memorial Hospital. Before him on the scratched, careworn yellow Formica table sat a pressed-paper cup with a swirled blue-and-green design. It was about three-quarters full of acrid, grayish sludge—what they optimistically referred to as coffee—an oily, rainbow-hued film gracing its wholly unappetizing surface. Despite the generous amount of sugar and milk he'd added to the cup, the beverage still tasted like all kinds of crap.

The tall hunter sighed and turned the cup in quick circles, watching the liquid climb the sides. It was mostly a prop anyway—something to give his long fingers to play with while he waited to go back to Dean. He'd been—encouraged—to step away for a short amount of time while they got Dean settled in his room. Sam had been asked to give them about half hour while the neurologist, Dr. Singh, did his exam and consult. Too tired to go to the Impala to snag his laptop and with nothing else to do, Sam had headed to the cafeteria. It was slightly past the dinner hour and about half of its mishmash of worn tables and chairs were occupied.

"Mr. Stanley? Sam, right?"

He looked up to find one of the nurses from the ER standing just to his left with a soft smile on her face and a cup in her hand.

"Oh, hey. Hi. Geri?" Sam made to politely stand, but she waved him back down.

"You look like you could use a little company? Do you mind if I sit down? I'm on a break."

"Um. Sure."

Geri smiled and pulled out a chair across from him and sat down. Tilting her head forward, she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the contents of his cup. "Ooohh, you actually went for that stuff they claim is coffee? You're brave. That stuff'll put a whole pelt of curly hair on your chest." It dawned on her a split second later what she'd just said. "Not that there's anything wrong with hair on a man's chest! I mean…on a guy sure, it's perfectly okay. Heck, you probably DO have hair on your chest, but…" Geri broke off with a self-conscious giggle. "Geez, open mouth, insert foot. I'm sorry—just ignore me—I'm just chattering complete nonsense."

"Nah, it's all right," replied Sam with just the tiniest amount of heat suffusing his face. He lifted the cup and took a sip of the rapidly-cooling drink. Try as he might though Sam couldn't control a little shudder at the taste. It might as well have been battery acid.

"Well, what I should have said was 'you shoulda went with the hot chocolate'. The hot chocolate is actually the best things they make here. In fact, give me that cup." Geri grabbed the coffee from between Sam's lax fingers. "I'm gonna go get you a hot chocolate. You look like you could use it."

"No, really, that's o—" The nurse was gone before Sam could sputter out the rest of his protest. He ran his unbandaged hand over his eyes attempting to wipe away both the grit of tiredness and worry. It didn't work. Sam glanced at his watch—6:43 p.m. He had another twenty or so minutes to wait.

Geri returned a few minutes later and sat a tall cup of hot chocolate in front of Sam. "Here ya go. I hope you like whipped cream. I had them squirt a bunch on top. OH, and I brought this for you too." She placed a small plate loaded with a giant cinnamon roll on the table next to the drink. The sweet treat was studded with nuts and raisins and was covered by a generous swath of creamy vanilla frosting.

"Gee, Geri, you didn't have to do that!"

"I know but I wanted to—so eat up. You really do look all done in." She watched Sam take a bite of the pastry. "You're waiting for them to get your brother settled in for the night, huh?"

"Yeah, and for that doctor to do his consult."

The nurse nodded. "He'll be staying the night up in the Adult Short Stay Unit on the fourth floor. I have a couple of friends who are on tonight up there. They'll take good care of him." Geri paused, a slight frown creasing her brow. "Oh, damn…"

Sam, finishing a gulp of hot chocolate, looked at her quizzically. "What?" He wiped away the narrow white mustache left by the melting whipped cream.

"It's nothing really. I just remembered that Ursula's working up there tonight."

"Ursula?"

Geri sighed. "Ursula Perdue. She's the Head Nurse on shift up there tonight. She's…um…I dunno—difficult I guess you'd say. She's very—VERY—old-fashioned. Still wears the white uniform dress, stockings, and the white nurses' hat with the black stripes—the whole nine yards. And I guess that's all okay if that's your thing, but with Ursula it's more her terrible attitude than anything else. She…umm…kinda rules with an iron fist."

"Oh, great. Dean's gonna love that."

Geri smiled a little uncertainly. "I'm sure he'll be sleeping most of the night and won't even know. Anyway, I probably shouldn't have said anything."

A jumble of excited, high-pitched voices erupted to the right of where the two of them were sitting causing them both to look up. A half dozen young female student nurses, trays of food in hand, were in the process of sitting down a couple of tables away. Half of them were sneaking peeks at Sam and giggling. The other three were rolling their eyes and poking at their giddy compatriots. Sam's felt his cheeks warm as a blush stole over his face. He glanced at his watch and turned his attention back to Geri. "Well, I guess it's time for me to get upstairs to my brother."

"Yeah, I need to get back to the ER." Geri swallowed the last few sips of her mango-flavored green tea and stood. She gathered Sam's empty plate, used napkin and cup and strolled with him toward the exit, dropping the refuse in the trash can next to the door. She placed a hand on his upper arm. "Okay, Sam, you take care now, you hear? Don't forget to take your antibiotics—like your brother's wounds that laceration's nothing to fool around with." Seeing Sam's nonplussed look, she narrowed her eyes and continued, "You haven't filled your prescription yet, have you?"

Sam shook his head no.

Geri gave him a pretend scowl and scolded, "You'd better or I'll tell Dr. Ward! Our pharmacy is open until 7:30 p.m."

The tall hunter raised his hands in surrender. "I'll go and get it filled. I promise."

"Good. And that brother of yours is gonna be fine. You'll be marching out of here in the morning before you know it." Offering him a final half wave, Geri walked away, leaving Sam to find his way to Dean with a quick side trip to the pharmacy.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Approaching Dean's room, the younger Winchester saw a short, slim, dark-skinned man with curly salt-and-pepper hair exit Dean's room and pause just outside the door to write some notes, presumably in his brother's chart.

"Dr. Singh?"

The man looked up—way up—meeting Sam's hazel-hued gaze.

"Yes?"

"I'm Sam--Dean's brother. How is he?" His anxiousness rang through loud and clear in his voice."

"I've completed my exam and feel no further tests are warranted at this time," the doctor responded in a lightly-accented voice, "However, he will be monitored throughout the night and if his status should change, we will re-evaluate."

"What about his drowsiness, confusion, and the throwing up and stuff?"

"All symptoms of a severe concussion though I think the persistent nausea is being enhanced by the IV antibiotic. I was just writing a change order for that. He will probably suffer from some short-term memory loss as well, but that should resolve itself along with the rest of symptoms in due time. Again, we will continue to re-evaluate throughout the night."

"So he's okay?"

"With time and rest, I believe he will complete recover from his injuries." The little man nodded politely and walked away.

Sam entered Dean's room quietly, finding his brother's drowsy eyes locked on the entryway. He saw Dean visibly relax upon his entry into to the room.

"Sammy, where've you been? What happened?" Dean's fingers tightened on the edge of the buff-colored blanket.

Sam pulled a thinly-padded chair next to the bed and sat. "You got hurt on a job, Dean. That house on Old Stone Road, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, Old Stone Road. Okay." His rote answer made it clear he didn't really remember but didn't want to let on. Dean frowned, a look of consternation settling on his face. "Your arm's bandaged."

"What this?" The tall, young hunter wiggled the fingers of his injured arm. "It's just a cut. Took a few stitches to close, just like yours."

The frown didn't dissipate. "That's all?"

"Yes that's all, worrywart."

"Good." Dean's eyelids began to flutter as he fought the exhaustion pulling at him.

"Stop fighting it and go to sleep. Might as well get what you can now, dude, 'cause the nurses are gonna keep you up half the night, you know."

Even in his semi-conscious state, Dean managed a smirk and slurred, "Haff the nigh'? Why ya insult me, li'le bro? I'ma sex God, S'mmy; I can go allll nigh'." His snark ended on a sigh as his body gave in to the need for sleep.

Sam chuckled at his brother's words and felt the tension—a heavy boulder resting on his shoulders for last several hours—ease. If Dean could still fling his own special brand of bullshit like that, he was definitely going to be okay.

Stretching out his long legs and squirming in the chair until he got somewhat comfortable, Sam leaned his head back and looked around the hospital room. It was a small space with dingy, unadorned beige walls and a speckled brown tile floor that sported long, meandering cracks in several places. The lone tiny window was so opaque with grime that he could barely make out the cloudy, rain-filled vista beyond. All in all it was a dreary, cheerless atmosphere that the buzzing overhead light did nothing to dispel. A stray shiver snaked its way down Sam's spine. Reaching for the remote for the TV, he switched on the set, located an innocuous, if mind numbing, comedy, and let the canned laughter chase away the quiet and gloom. It wasn't long though before his own exhaustion caught up with him, and he drifted off to sleep, elbow propped on the edge of Dean's bed, chin resting in his palm.

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd slept when he was abruptly awakened by a rough hand on his shoulder determinedly shaking him. An imperious, commanding voice sounded above him.

"Visiting hours are over. You need to vacate this room immediately."

Groaning as his now stiff muscles and joints protested actual movement, Sam pushed himself up in the chair, wiping sleep away with his fingers. "Wha?" He flicked a glance at his watch; he'd been asleep for just over an hour. It was 8:45 p.m.

"Visiting hours are over. You must leave."

Sam blinked up at the strange woman standing over him, taking in the white dress, the hat with black stripes, and the formidably stern expression darkening her face. His mind flashed back to his earlier conversation with Geri. _Must be the iron-fisted Ursula Perdue._ He cleared his throat and muttered, "Nah, I gotta stay with my brother."

"No. You cannot stay in this room. Visiting hours ended precisely at 8:30 p.m."

He pushed to his feet. "B-But…"

Ursula kept her gimlet glare focused on Sam like a laser beam adjusting it only slightly to accommodate his height as he rose. "No buts. Hospital policy clearly states that visiting hours are from 10:00 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. Exceptions are only made for the intensive care units and then at the discretion of the doctors or charge nurses. THIS is not an intensive care unit."

"You don't und—"

"I do not care to repeat myself. Must I call security?"

Sam thought back to his encounter with the ever-so-pleasant Trumbull and cringed.

"S-Saam? Wha's goin' on?"

Dean's murmured question pulled Sam's attention away from the battle-ax standing before him.

"She's telling me I have to leave, Dean. Says visiting hours are over and she'll call security if I don't." As Sam spoke he tossed a defiant glare at his current tormenter, fully intending to continue the argument.

Dean shifted on the bed, grunting as all of his aches and pains reawakened with a vengeance. He eyed the two antagonists facing off near his bed. "Sammy—s-should go 'head-n-go."

"What! No! I-I can stay right here."

"Nah. Go. Sleep. C-Come back-n-get me in mornin'."

"Dean…"

Dean tapped the top of his brother's hand with his middle and index fingers. " 's okay. Go."

TBC…


	7. Dark of Night

Forgive me for such a long time between updates. I had a really rough time with this chapter, and I'm not entirely certainly that I'm happy with it, but I can't bear to fiddle with it anymore. If I did, I'd never get it posted.

Thanks for reading.

V

* * *

Dark of Night (A Minute Poem)

Sibilant whispers fill the air,  
Invite despair.  
One may shiver,  
Lips aquiver.

Things lurking in the dark of night  
Just out of sight.  
Evil prances,  
Wicked dances.

Outside this darkness, there lies hope.  
Truth, trust elope.  
For heroes brave,  
Arrive to save.

© Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

* * *

Sam fixed his turbulent eyes, heated to a warm whiskey hue, on the large nurse. "I need a minute or two alone with him to make sure he's settled in for the night."

"I'll allow you two minutes, no more."

Nurse Perdue checked Dean's vitals and IV before stomping from the room, stopping only to glare at Sam once more and tap her watch face. Once outside the room, she paused and smiled. It was not a nice smile. Had anyone been there to see it at that moment, they likely would have felt their blood run cold.

Sam turned his glare away from the door and now unseen back of Nurse Perdue. His expression softened and he asked, "Dean, are you sure?"

His elder brother squinted up at him. "Mmm hmm."

The tall, lanky hunter crossed to the room's tiny closet, grabbing the turquoise and white plastic drawstring bag emblazed with "Personal Belongings" in black from inside. He rooted through the contents for a moment before his fingers curled around the object he sought. After shoving the unwieldy bag back into the closet, Sam carried the item over to the bed.

"Okay, listen, here's your cell phone. I know you're not supposed to have it, but no one needs to know. Just lay it by your leg under the covers or something. Call me if you need anything, all right?"

"Uh huh."

Not overly enthused with Dean's barely verbal responses, Sam worried and watched while Dean tucked the cell phone into place then finally nodded in satisfaction. "Okay, I better get out of here before Cruella returns. She might sit on me and pull my hair." He smiled when his silliness elicited a soft chuckle from his big brother.

"Mebbe she'll kiss ya," whispered Dean.

Sam's smile turned to a moue of dismay. "Oh now that's just all kinds of wrong. I'm really outta here now." Casting a final look around the room, he slipped out the door.

The long hallway was deserted; hospital staff likely busy at their varied tasks, patients mostly settled for the night, and family and friends relegated to their homes until visiting hours tomorrow. Housekeeping staff had come and gone, leaving the tile floor—though scuffed and worn by age and the endless passage of countless feet—freshly waxed and buffed to a high shine. His Puma-clad feet squeaked a little as he trudged toward the nearest bank of elevators.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Through half-closed eyes, Dean watched his brother's back as he strode through the door. The door shut with a soft swish, and Dean blinked. A shiver snaked its way down his spine, awakening his injured ribs and pulling his various stitches taut for a second, setting the still-inflamed flesh to throbbing.

Concussion- and pain-fueled exhaustion again nipped away hungrily at his consciousness, and Dean let his eyelids drift closed, dark lashes fluttering a few times as he instinctively fought the encroaching darkness. His fingers tightened around the edge of the blankets as sleep, relentless in its pursuit, claimed him.

He missed Nurse Perdue's arctic smile when she poked her head in minutes later to ensure Sam had departed.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam extended an index finger and pushed the circular down arrow button to summon the elevator. Yawning, he rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, jumping slightly when the tinny ding-ding sounded announcing the arrival of an available car. Stepping into the reflective silver interior, Sam joined two white-coated, scrub-clad doctors who were involved in a rather intense conversation in the back corner. Sam offered a nod when they paused and glanced up at him. One tipped his chin in return, the other ignored Sam completely; and they both quickly returned to their conversation.

He pushed the already lit "G" button before leaning against the slippery metal wall and closed his eyes, listening to the swishy, groany sounds of the cables as the elevator descended with a slight rocking motion. Never one to really feel claustrophobic despite the many times he felt hemmed in due to his size, Sam suddenly felt the walls of the lift close in as the last drop of adrenalin in his system fizzled out. The doors slid open with wheezing grunt on the ground floor, and Sam gratefully exited ahead of the two doctors. They passed him as he paused to get oriented, and the taller man fell into step behind them, remaining there until he reached a set of sliding glass doors leading to the outside and subsequently the visitor parking lot. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his brown jacket, Sam shuffled through the door and into the cool night air, lost in thought. It took him seven or so minutes to reach the Impala where she hulked in the far corner covered in a evening gown of shimmery, iridescent dew. Night cloaked her curves, the darkness made denser by the deep purple shadows thrown by a canopy of overhanging trees. Only her headlights and grill coyly peeked through the veil.

Having come to a decision —one he couldn't exactly explain and that would likely annoy his overprotective brother to no end—during the journey from Dean's room to the car, the young hunter bypassed the driver's door, proceeding directly to the trunk. From within its depths, he pulled an old, faded blanket and a well-used travel pillow. Ignoring the crabby grumbling of his stomach reminding him of his lack of recent significant sustenance, Sam crawled into the backseat of Dean's baby, made himself as comfortable as possible on the soft leather, and closed his eyes.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_He was running. Full out running. Legs pumping mercilessly. Muscles bunching and stretching with incredible speed, if not actual grace. Breath bellowing in and out, sawing viciously across the back of his throat._

_He straddled a sizeable crack—one populated by an abundance of oil-dark, sinuous shadows—in the ground, fighting to maintain his precarious balance. One side of the fissure was inferno hot; the other arctic cold. Alternately sweat saturated his spiked hair, running in copious, thick rivulets down his sunburned pink face and dripping steadily off his chin then frost whitened his brow, filming his eyes, freeze-drying exhaled moisture and forming a crushed ice coating across his bowed lips._

_And still he ran._

_For to stop was to die._

_With a rumbley growl, the crack widened beneath his filthy bare feet._

Dean's eyes opened with a snap, and a gasp flew from his lips as he jerked awake. He blinked through sleep-blurred eyes and frantically gazed around the room, instinctively searching out his brother in the gathered gloom.

"S-S-Sammy?" he rasped. The room was empty; a vague, whispery memory of telling Sam it was okay to leave slowly bubbled its way to the surface as did the memory of Sam leaving him his cell phone. With his free hand, he patted the covers until he discovered the reassuring rectangular lump.

The darkness of the room beyond the pale oval cast by the dim light fixture above his head suddenly seemed to shift, grow denser, more menacing. A strong sense of disquiet crawled over his skin, raising a smattering of goose bumps from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He swallowed hard against his achy, dry throat and realized he was ravenously thirsty. Dean pushed the call button.

Minutes later, a young nurse with carrot orange hair, a dust of freckles, and amazingly intense green eyes hurried into the room.

"Perfect timing, Mr. Stanley. I was just getting ready to come in and check on you. Did you need something?"

Dean felt the tension ease from his battered and bruised body with the woman's presence. "Water…um…please?"

"Certainly. I'll fill your little pitcher. Let me just check your vitals first." The nurse actually went about her task even as she spoke; finishing only moments after her words came to an end. She left the room with the pitcher, returning seconds later with it full of ice water. Pouring a small amount into a cup, she raised the bed slightly and offered it to him to drink.

"I'll just leave this here if you want more later on. Did you need anything else, Mr. Stanley?"

Dean barely had time to cautiously shake his head before the whirlwind redhead was gone, leaving him slightly dizzy in her wake. With her absence, his sense of unease returned two-fold. Without really thinking, he pushed the call button again. When the door swung open some long minutes later, Dean started to sigh in relief. However, it was short-lived for it was Nurse Perdue who answered the summons this time and any sense of relief that had accompanied the red-haired nurse was markedly absent.

"Did you need something, Mr. Stanley?"

"Um…I…guess I—" Temporarily lacking his quick thought processes and wit, Dean let his stuttering taper off.

Nurse Perdue looked down her nose, mouth twisted as if in disgust. "You should only use the call button when absolutely necessary. This is not a country club for womanizers, Mr. Stanley. We nurses are NOT here for your amusement—despite what you might think."

"But—"

She was gone before Dean could utter another word of protest.

He shifted restlessly in the bed, stifling a moan. The throbbing in his head had picked up its pace, keeping time with each and every heartbeat. Despite his bone-deep weariness, Dean couldn't bring himself to close his eyes. Not now. Burning traces of heat and snaps of cold chased their way up and down his spine. After long minutes of staring into the gloom, certain now that something was staring back, Dean reached under the covers and closed his fingers around his cell phone.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The blare of his latest ringtone startled Sam, mid-snore, from a surprisingly restful sleep despite the cramped conditions. With his eyes still closed, he groped around for the location of his phone, finally finding it inexplicably down near his knee. He keyed the talk button from memory before it even reached his ear.

" 'lo."

"_Sam."_

His eyes snapped open when he heard his brother's low-pitched voice. "Dean?"

"_Sammy…"_

"What's goin' on, man?"

"_There's…I think…there's…something…after me…more than one maybe…I dunno. Shit, my head hurts, Sam."_ A soft moan followed.

His brother sounded odd, confused. "Dean, what're you talking about? You're in the hospital. You have a concussion, remember?"

"_Something's after me. Woke up 'lone and it's happy. I should go 'way."_

"Hey, hey. Take it easy, bro. It's probably just the concussion and the pain meds playing with your mind."

A hitched sigh echoed across the line_. "Nevermind. They're here."_

TBC…


	8. It's Hungry

Again, I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I've had some sort of virus thingy going on for a few weeks and it made concentrating on writing hard.

This is a short chapter, but I figured it was better than nothing.

Hope everyone enjoys!

V

* * *

Stalked

Fetid breath  
reeking of death,  
molten with dark despair,  
tickles the back of my neck.  
A ravenous beast waiting  
to sink its needled teeth.  
Putrid slime of bitter dreams  
lies entrenched in all the  
cracks and furrows, rendering  
an unstable foundation.  
Pursuit at its most dangerous.  
Run, stumble, trip.  
And yet continue on.  
One step ahead.

© 2008, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

It hovered there in the creases and corners. Its father, mother, brothers, sisters, cousins, comrades, cohorts, surrounded it—blended with it. Here they were all one. It. It was at once everything…and nothing. And it was hungry. So hungry. It watched _him_. Wanted and needed _him_. The one on the bed—the gift, the offering—illuminated only by the tiny, tepid flickering glow of a dying light.

It could smell his inherent strength, his temporary weakness, his hidden fears, his sense of loneliness laced with guilt and loss. It found these things intoxicatingly tempting. These scents fueled its hunger to nearly unbearable levels, and it pulsed forward, beyond eager to taste. It extended a night-dark tongue—an inky tendril. Seeking…seeking…seeking. Touching. Tasting. Mmmm. Exquisite. It was ravenous. It wanted to sup from this sumptuous well and be nourished and enriched by his misery.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

"Nurse Perdue?" called a sweet voice from down the long hallway.

"Yes, Nurse Martin?" Ursula's reply was just shy of a growl.

Nurse Monica Martin smirked and nodded her head, setting her carrot orange curls to bobbing. She answered in a sing-song voice, "Mr. Blake has managed to…fall out of his bed. I need your help getting him back where he belongs."

Ursula scowled and reluctantly threw down the mottled piece of paper she'd been reading. She caressed it with her fingertips once more after it fluttered to rest on top of a stack of charts. Pushing away from the desk with force, she stood, ignoring the wheeled chair as it sailed across the space to bump into the adjacent wall—all the while swearing under her breath at the untimely interruption. _Dumb ass people falling out of bed._

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean's breath hitched as he squinted at the writhing shadows that seemed to be pressing closer and closer to the bed on which he lay. His eyes widened as dark tendrils snaked across the bottom of the bed, searching, seeking, rippling toward him. A wave of searing cold enveloped him, instantly numbing the fingers wrapped around his phone. It slipped from his grasp, striking the bed and bouncing off, tumbling unnoticed to the floor with a muffled thunk.

With an astonished gasp, Dean pulled his legs toward his torso while shoving the blankets aside. The room swirled and swayed around him as he sat upright. His knuckles whitened as he tightly gripped the edge of the mattress. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the tendrils of dark still curling toward him. One feeler—faster and longer than the rest—found purchase, nudging up against his right hip, and he yelped at electric zing of cold pain that arced through his body. Dean shoved himself to his feet, away from the seeking shadows, grunting as the pain of his wounds reawakened with a vengeance. He bit his lip, drawing blood, as his pounding his head reached agonizing proportions.

Dean blindly yanked the IV cannula from his arm, flinging it to the floor, ignoring the fluid as it splashed then pooled on the tile and the thin line of blood trickling sinuously down his arm and dripping off the tips of his fingers. His first couple steps forward were unsteady, his third plain unlucky as his bare foot slipped in the growing puddle of liquid. Already dizzy and off-balance, Dean slammed to the floor, his left knee and sprained wrist taking the brunt of the impact, forcing a harsh grunt past his lips and involuntary tears to his eyes. The temperature in the room plummeted, and the hapless hunter shuddered, dressed as he was only in the blue hospital johnny. Its well-worn and thin material no defense to the preternatural cold. He crawled forward a foot or more, still desperate to distance himself from the bed and the shadows writhing around it, before finally pushing back to his feet and limping the rest of the way to the door.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_They're here? What the hell?_ "Dean?" There was wheezing breaths whistling over the air then Sam heard a loud clatter echo through the phone. "Dean!" _Shit! Something's wrong!_

Sam shoved the blanket aside, sitting up and untangling his long legs from its now unwelcome encumbrance at the same time. "Dean, c'mon, answer me, man!" he shouted into his cell. The hiss of open air met his demand though he thought he detected a distant, intermittent groaning in the background. He continued to yell his brother's name into the mouthpiece as he pushed his way out of the backseat of the Impala, shutting the door with enough force to prompt an ass-kicking from Dean if he were to see and hear it. In between his pleading litany, Sam suddenly heard a thud and harsh grunt of pain. It made his blood run cold, and he broke into a run.

Knowing it was pointless but doing it anyway, Sam growled into the phone, "Damn it! Hang on, bro. I'm coming. You hear me? I'm coming!"

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean cracked open the door, peering blearily into the corridor. Not seeing anyone immediately in sight, the hunter slipped into the hallway and limped-weaved his way toward the nearest stairwell, the hospital gown leaving little to the imagination as it flapped open in the back. Under normal circumstances, the elder Winchester would have been mortified, but escape was the only clear idea in his injury-befuddled brain at that precise moment. The injured man made it down one flight of stairs before a churning white-capped wave of dizziness forced him to stop. Leaning for a second against the wall in the landing, Dean attempted to draw in deep breaths but succeeded only in aggravating his cracked ribs. With a moan, he cradled his injured wrist close to his body and worked desperately to summon the strength and energy to continue on. The cold concrete leached away coherency and conviction. Dean's eyelids drooped.

A sense of shame for his weakness wormed its way through the increasing fogginess, bowing his shoulders. Dean lurched forward, tackling another flight of stairs. Without warning, a missed step threw him sideways, hard, into the metal railing, and he felt one of his already cracked ribs give way completely. Dean cut off the reflexive scream with a closed fist. He stilled for a moment suddenly wondering where he was and why. A brief flash of the shadows slithering across his bed reminded him.

A white line of pain circled his lips and beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he dragged his body down a few more steps. At the next landing, however, a tidal wave of dizziness overtook him. His legs trembled and then abruptly refused to carry his weight. His vision tunneled, Dean collapsed to the ground, his forehead and nose bouncing off the concrete as his remaining vision grayed out and darkness claimed him.

TBC…


	9. Gone Astray

Gone Astray

Lost in a forbidding maze.  
Puffs of breath mere echoes  
of hollow, mindless sound.  
I look, but I cannot see.  
Blind are eyes filled with fear,  
brimming with confusion.

©2008, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

Still calling his brother's name into the phone in the hope of eliciting a response, Sam sprinted through the poorly lit parking lot. The night had taken on a distinct chill, cold enough to see your breath, and a steady drizzle fell from the sky, pattering against the dark asphalt. It was late, but a goodly number of cars remained in the slots. He weaved his way around and between them, clipping his thigh once on a wayward bumper of a poorly parked Pontiac. Ignoring the bright flash of pain, Sam grunted in frustration, snapped his phone closed, and shoved it into his pocket.

The parking lot opened to a two-lane thoroughfare directly in front of the hospital. He hurried across, slowing down only when he entered the building. Keeping his fear and adrenalin momentarily in check, Sam wiped the moisture from his face and quickly located the nearest stairwell, heading for it without delay.

Taking the stairs two at a time, his long legs conquered the treads with careless abandon—a mountain climber scaling his chosen peak. At the fourth floor landing, he paused for a half a second to suck in a couple of much needed breaths before rushing through the door. Sam found the hallway deserted, much like it had been when he'd left earlier. He wasn't sure he was in any way comforted by the lack of chaos. Hunter's instincts on full alert, the youngest Winchester bolted for his brother's room, pushing open the door without hesitation.

"Dean!"

Sam's breath stuttered when he saw the empty hospital bed. It almost stopped completely when he noticed Dean's abandoned cell phone resting in the small puddle of IV fluid pooled on the floor. Other than the mussed linen and the discarded IV, there were no other signs of a violent struggle. Pacing a quick circle around the room, Sam felt no preternatural cold nor did he detect the distinct odor of sulphur. All of which told him exactly nothing without an EMF meter in his hand to offer any sort of reassurance.

Frustrated, the hunter started for the door, only to stop short when a flash of red near his booted foot caught his attention. Crouching low, Sam extended an index finger and touched one of the spots, immediately recognizing the tacky feel of the viscous fluid. Blood. His throat tightened, and he swallowed against the sudden constriction. Further investigation revealed a couple more droplets on the floor near the door and a small smear near the handle. Exiting the room, Sam let his gaze roam over the tiles of the hallway floor, finally spying a few more spatters several feet away—about half the distance between Room 4-22 and the nearest stairwell exit.

It was then that Sam knew—maybe through some brotherly instinct given how close he and Dean were more than anything else—that his brother was spooked and was on the run. And in no condition to be on the move at all.

He crossed the space at a run, pausing long enough to look through the small window to make sure his brother didn't lie just beyond. Assured clear passage, Sam turned the handle and shoved through the door.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

"How on earth did Mr. Blake manage to fall out of bed?" grumbled Ursula as she sailed into the room, her thoughts still on the piece of paper she'd been reading at the desk.

She bent over the elderly gentleman who lay crumpled on the floor arms and legs akimbo. He was awake and alert, rheumy eyes darting to and fro, but a stroke many years ago had left him mute which was why he was now only making soft mewling sounds. "For goodness sake, he looks like he tried to get up and dance a damn jig, keeling over mid-step." She quickly checked the man for injuries finding none.

Nurse Martin pursed her pouty, red lips, carefully hiding her smile of satisfaction. "I certainly wouldn't have a clue as to what happened. You know the old coot doesn't know what he's doing half the time."

"You know, I could, and should, write you up for that, Nurse Martin?" she muttered stiffly.

Monica flashed a somewhat feral smile. "For what? Pointing out the obvious?" Nurse Perdue's arctic glare didn't phase the redhead in the least.

"It's unlike him to do something so stupid. He's usually accommodatingly docile." Ursula raised her voice. "Sebastian Blake, you know better than to try to get out of bed," she scolded harshly. "You should make such trouble for us nurses." The man blinked rapidly, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. "Let's get him back up on the bed."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dr. Mike Ward signed the discharge summary he'd just read with a flourish despite the fact that his signature was now virtually unreadable. He'd been reviewing and signing off on charts for the last hour and still had a rather impressive stack sitting on the desk awaiting attention. His fingers were in danger of seriously cramping. Mike flexed them a few times before straightening in his chair and grimacing as his back protested his prolonged hunched position.

Throwing down his pen, the doctor stood and extended his arms over his head, relishing the satisfying stretch of taut muscle. He rubbed his palms over his tired eyes and yawned until his jaw cracked. Rather than return to the mind-numbing paperwork, Mike instead glanced at his watch and decided to check on a few of his patients, starting with Dean Stanley. He took a final pull on his nearly empty bottle of Coke before heading out the door and strolling toward the elevators.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam bounded down the steps, urgency dogging his heels. Rounding the bend to tackle the next flight of stairs, he spied his older brother in a heap at the bottom and his heart clenched.

"Dean!"

His feet barely seemed to touch the treads as Sam closed the remaining distance. He dropped to his knees next to the fallen hunter, staring, appalled, at the small puddle of blood under Dean's head. The gem-colored fluid was stark against Dean's milk-white complexion.

The younger man closed his eyes for a split second and took a deep breath. "Shit. Dean?" he rested a hand lightly on his brother's shoulder, "Dean, can you hear me?"

A quiet moan met his query.

Unwilling to risk further injuring his sibling by moving him, Sam knew he had to summon help. Rubbing a circle with his fingertips in an unconscious gesture of comfort, Sam said, "I'm gonna go get help, okay?"

"Ssmm?" his name was a breathless sigh.

"Yeah, I'm here, Dean. Can't leave ya alone for a minute, can I, bro? You and I have to have a talk about this attention-seeking streak you've developed." joked Sam, "Don't move, okay? I need to go get help." He felt vibration through his fingers as his brother started to shiver. Seeing that his hospital johnny was gaping open and knowing how mortified his brother would be, Sam pulled the edges closed with his free hand, never once faltering in the comforting rubbing of his fingers. "I'm coming right back, you hear me? Don't move. I mean it, Dean, don't move."

Dean huffed a little as his brother's order, and he cracked his eyes open, only to let them quickly fall shut as the light caused a spike in pain. He felt the warm touch disappear and was disappointed. He licked at his dry lips and tasted the iron tang of blood. _Blood? Why 'm I bleedin? Where the fuck am I?_ Dean moved to push himself up. A spasm of pain from his side tore through his body, forcing another moan past his crimson-coated lips, and he immediately stilled. _Don't move. Now that's a good idea._

Focused solely on getting help, Sam blasted through the stairwell door on 4th floor and barreled into something—make that _someone_—solid. The person let out an _oomph_ and staggered back a few steps before exclaiming, "What the hell? Sam? Sam, what are you doing here?"

Relief poured through the young hunter at the sight of Mike Ward standing before him. He latched on to the doctor's upper arm and pulled. "Doc? Thank God. C'mon."

"C'mon? C'mon where?" Mike resisted, anchoring his feet to the floor.

Sam pulled harder. "It's my brother. You've gotta help him."

Dr. Ward tried to shake out of Sam's grip without success. He eyed the distraught man with concern. "What do you mean help him? He's in his room, probably asleep."

The hunter took a deep breath to calm himself somewhat so he didn't come off as a crazed idiot. "Look, Dr. Ward—Mike—I can't explain it right now. But my brother—he's over here—in the stairwell—hurt. More hurt." Sam's tone was urgent. "You've gotta come and help him." He tugged on the doctor's arm once again.

Nurse Ursula Perdue, having just exited Sebastian Blake's room, clomped over to the two men. "What's going on here?"

Mike's assessing gaze flickered to the nurse before returning to the man he knew as Sam Stanley. "Where is he?"

"One floor down. He's at the bottom of two flights of stairs. He's bleeding!" Sam was ready to pick the doctor up and physically carry him to his brother's side.

"Nurse Perdue, call a MERT response, Stairwell D, 3rd Floor."

TBC…

* * *

A/N:

Again, I'm sorry for the length of time between chapters on this story. My muse just doesn't not want to cooperate with me sometimes. If anyone is still reading, I hope you enjoy.

MERT = Medical Emergency Response Team


	10. Extrinsic Motivation

Extrinsic Motivation

A perfection of  
smoke and mirrors.  
Illusory by nature,  
by habit, by design.  
Cunning in its  
simplicity.  
Deadly in its  
complexity.

©2009, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

Catching movement in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, Sam catapulted to full height, abandoning the magazine he'd been systematically spindling rather than reading. "Doc?"

Mike Ward motioned for Sam to join him.

"How's my brother?"

The young doctor sighed. "Well, one of the ribs that had a hairline crack before is now broken. He's lucky it didn't shift and puncture his lung. And honestly, I'm not happy he cracked his head but good for the second time in 24 hours. After examining him, I don't think he's made the original injury worse. He bloodied his nose and bruised his chin and knee when he fell. The nose isn't broken but it'll be a little swollen and sore. All in all, it certainly could've been worse."

The tall hunter ran a hand down his face. "Can I see him?"

"Of course. They're settling him back in his room. Why don't you walk up with me?"

The two men were quiet as they proceeded down the hall and waited for the elevator. As they entered the car, the doctor again spoke. "So tell me, how'd you come to be here? How'd you know something was wrong with your brother?"

Sam looked up from the elevator floor, pinning his gaze on Mike. There was a slight challenge reflected in their depths. "Dean doesn't do well with hospitals. Long story. I left him his cell phone to call me if he needed to." The elevator pinged and the door slid to the right allowing them to disembark.

Dr. Ward nodded. "So he called you. Did he say what was wrong?"

The half-truths came easily. "No, not really. He was vague, you know? Just said he felt he had to leave. I kept him on the phone while I got here as fast as I could. I heard him drop the phone just about the time I pulled into the parking lot."

"Sounds like he woke up confused—maybe a little scared from what you just said about him and hospitals—no doubt the concussion at work. Still, I apologize that he managed to get out of his room like that and further injure himself."

Sam made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"Why don't you go ahead to your brother's room? I want to make a couple of more notations on his chart before leaving it here at the nurses' station. I'll stop by when I'm done."

The younger man nodded and lengthened his stride, eating up the distance to Dean's room. As he approached, Sam was startled to hear a querulous female voice coming from behind the door. He pushed the door open to find Nurse Perdue leaning her considerable bulk over the bed, impatiently prodding and poking at his brother; the entire time hectoring him long and loud for being "a flat out bothersome patient". Dean, ashen-faced and clearly not firing on all cylinders, not to mention hampered by his injured wrist, batted ineffectually at her busy hands—a weak imitation of his normal growl issuing from between his chapped lips.

Sam stepped into the room and let the door close behind him. "What the hell are you doing?" Sam's voice was deep-timbered and deadly.

Ursula spun on her heels, scowling at the intrusion. "I'm taking care of my patient." For all the venom it contained, the last word could have been translated to "scum of the earth". "What are _you_ doing in here? I told you it's against hospital rules."

Ignoring her question, Sam ordered, "Just get out and leave my brother alone."

"_You_ do not give the orders in this hospital, young man. And, _he_ should not have been traipsing through the halls at all hours of the night causing a ruckus."

"He has a concussion! You should have been keeping an eye on him!"

"It's bad enough he kept hitting the call button all night simply to have pretty nurses run to his side like some gigolo. How anyone expects us to get our work done with the likes of him lying in this hospital…" Nurse Perdue sniffed disdainfully.

Sam saw red at the derision in the woman's voice. He stepped closer—well into her personal space—and glared. "Get out. If I see you near Dean again, I will sue this hospital…"

"Is there a problem here?" Mike Ward's voice came from the doorway as he pushed his way through.

Perdue straightened and jutted her chin outward.

"Ursula?"

"No. No problem at all, Doctor." She sailed by them, proud as a Viking ship and exited the room.

Mike turned his attention to Sam. "What was that all about?"

Sam rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slumped into the chair next to the bed. "I don't like the way she acts around Dean."

"Ursula's always been a bit abrasive. But I've never seen her that outright rude. I'll have a talk with her."

The younger man shrugged, knowing full well, of course, that his threat to sue was as empty as their pockets at times.

Dr. Ward turned his attention to Dean, who was looking back and forth between them alternately confused and bemused. "So, Dean, how're you feeling?"

Dean looked at him for a second before his gaze flicked back to Sam. "'s scary when he's mad, huh?" A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Tired." He closed his eyes.

"After the battering you've had today, I imagine you are. How's your pain—on a scale of one to ten?"

"Two."

"That means probably eight or nine in Dean-speak, Doc," Sam interjected.

Mike looked at his patient and shook his head ruefully. "Why am I not surprised? I'll make an adjustment in my orders," the doctor tapped Dean's foot. "Get some sleep." He glanced at Sam. "You, too, if you can."

"I can stay?"

"Yeah, I'll make sure that everyone on the floor knows."

After the doctor left, Sam turned his attention to his brother who lay with his eyes closed, seeming about to drift off to sleep. The tight grip he had on the blankets gave the ruse away.

"Dean, what happened?"

The older Winchester's eyelids rose to half mast, revealing muddy green eyes. "Huh?"

"What happened earlier? What was all that about on the phone?"

"I-I d-don't… Phone?"

"You called me earlier, remember? You said something was here."

A fragmented memory of ink black tendrils slithering across the bed flashed through his mind. His grip turned white-knuckled. "Hungry."

"Dude, I don't think you really want to eat right now. You'd probably just get sick."

"N-Not me. It."

Sam suddenly remembered Dean saying that on the phone. That something was _hungry for him_. His gut tightened. "Dean, what the hell did you see?"

"Nuthin'."

Forgetting for a second about the concussion and thinking his brother was simply being evasive, Sam slammed a fist against his knee in frustration. "Dean…"

Dean moaned and raised a hand to his aching head. "N-Not so loud."

Guilt kicked Sam in the gut. "Shit. Sorry—I'm sorry."

"Really w-was nuthin'. J-Just…shadows."

The hunter sucked in a breath. "Daevas?" The very thought cause a shiver to skitter down his spine.

"No. Different."

Sam sat quietly for a moment, his brain racing. He drummed his fingers on his leg. "You mean like a Bodach or a dementor?"

Dean's brow wrinkled. "Huh?"

"Dean Koontz uses Bodachs; actually the plural is Bodaich, in his Odd Thomas novels. And J.K. Rowling used dementors in the Harry Potter novels. They're similar in nature. Actually akin to the Bogeyman." Sam paused long enough in his musings to notice his brother making a face at him. "What?"

"Y-You read too much…"

Ignoring the jibe, Sam asked, "What makes you say it's hungry?"

"Could hear it. Feel it. Was excited I was here."

It was Sam's turn to frown. He didn't like the sound of this at all. Sam stood. "I need to get the computer and some other stuff from the car—"

"No!" A spike of inexplicable terror jolted through the older man, and he shot up into a sitting position. The move cost him dearly as agony tore through his side. What color he had drained from his face, leaving him ashen and slick with sweat. "I-I'll c-come…" he panted.

Alarmed, Sam immediately grabbed a hold of his brother's shoulders. "Goddammit, Dean, take it easy. Take it easy. C'mon, just lay back and breathe." He continued to sooth until Dean stopped struggling. "I'll get someone to stay in here for the five minutes or so I'm gone, okay?" He could feel minute tremors racing through his brother's frame. "You won't be alone. I'll ask a nurse or something. Even if it's the scary one, okay?" Sam waited for Dean to nod reluctantly before moving to the door. He opened it and watched for a few minutes until he caught sight of a redhead saunter from another room. Sam motioned to her. He spoke as the pretty nurse approached, "Excuse me, miss."

"Call me Monica." She smiled, her bright green eyes alight.

Sam flashed a half watt smile of his own. "Monica, could you—do you think you could do me a favor and stay with my brother for like five or ten minutes? With this concussion, you know, he wandered away earlier and I need to run out to the car. I don't wanna take a chance…"

She nodded. "Perfectly understandable, Mister…" she let the question dangle.

"Stanley. Sam Stanley. Just call me Sam."

"Of course, Sam, I'll stay with him."

"Thank you! I'll be right back."

Sam loped down the hall mind whirling as Monica entered the room. She sat down in the chair recently vacated by the youngest Winchester. "Hello, Dean. I'm Monica. We met earlier."

The redhead stared at him with a startling intensity. The tip of her tongue darted out to lick her lush carmine lips.

TBC…


	11. Stealth

Stealth (A Tyburn Poem)

Slickest  
Sickest  
Thickest  
Quickest  
Stealing in its Slickest, Sickest way.  
Evil at night's Thickest, Quickest comes.

© 2009, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

It took Sam a bit longer than ten minutes to reach the car, gather and stow what he thought he might need, and make it back to the hospital room despite the fact that he kept his pace at a jog. When he pushed through the door, now accompanied by his laptop and a duffel full of basic hunter weaponry and equipment, Sam found Nurse Martin standing by Dean's bed, staring down at him intently with the tiniest of smiles gracing her face. Dean, for his part, lay completely still staring heavy-lidded at the door. Sam saw him visibly relax when he caught sight of him crossing the threshold.

He dropped the canvas duffel bag by the leg of his chair and sat the laptop down on the bed next to his brother's hip. "Hey, thanks, Monica. I really appreciate you staying with him."

She turned her luminescent green gaze toward him. "Certainly not a problem at all, Mr. Stanley," she purred, "Considering how luscious your brother is, it was my pleasure." The nurse winked and licked her bottom lip.

Nonplussed, the younger man watched her leave the room, a curious quirk in his eyebrow. He turned his attention to Dean. "You okay? She…uh…didn't like…do…anything, did she?"

"Wha?" Dean's gaze tracked Sam as he sat down in the chair next to the bed and settled the computer on his lap.

Sam studied his brother's face for a second. "Nevermind." He pushed the power button on the side of the computer, waiting for the pinging and twanging of the boot up to cease before speaking again. "So, you said you saw shadows? Is there anything distinctive about them at all?"

Dean battled the concussion-induced haze and struggled to answer Sam's question. "Cold."

"You're cold?" Sam sat forward, started to reach for the covers to adjust them, but his brother's next words stopped him.

"No, it's cold—they're cold. And hot."

"Cold and hot? That doesn't make any sense. Wait—you said 'it' then changed it to 'they're'—does that mean there are more than one?"

"Of many, one."

Sam waited for more but Dean's eyelids fluttered closed as his body finally gave in to his injuries.

The younger man reached out and rested a palm against his brother's forehead, smiling when Dean unconsciously turned into the touch. A fleeting moment of comfort readily and easily given but rarely accepted less it compromise his patented Winchester stoicism.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Monica Martin sauntered down to the Nurses' Station and dropped down in a seat next to Ursula behind the counter. "Mmm, that man in 4-22 is just so scrumptious. All that long, lean muscle…"

Ursula looked up from the crumpled paper she was studying. "Bah! A feckless womanizer that one. You can tell just by looking at him. Mark my words, that handsome face of his hides a devil."

Monica giggled, a dreamy look stealing across her face. "Oh, Ursula, you just don't recognize a tasty morsel when you see one. That's too bad."

Nurse Perdue scowled. "The sooner he's gone, the better. I'm going to go get some coffee. Mooning over that worthless man isn't going to get that paperwork done, Nurse Martin."

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Setting the laptop aside for a moment, Sam pulled the EMF meter from the depths of the duffel bag and quickly scanned the room. The indicator lights didn't so much as flicker. Stowing it back in the bag, Sam grabbed his canister of salt and made a circle around the hospital bed before returning to his seat.

He settled the computer in his lap, rubbing vigorously at a crick in the back of his neck. Unsure where exactly to start researching, Sam called up his favorite search engine and typed in "shadows". _Great only __90,100,000 hits._ He backtracked and typed in "bodach". _Better—only 190,000 hits._ A quick glance at the top-most hits though proved the information to be basic and vague. Sam tried several more variations on the bogeyman terminology, but none of it seemed very useful. After an hour, he sat back with a groan and rubbed his eyes. Muttering a curse, Sam reached in his bag and grabbed his dad's journal, paging through it quickly until he found the single page headed "Bogeyman/Bugbear". A perusal of John's cramped handwriting revealed little in the way of clues and Sam sighed in frustration. He was about to slam the book shut when a cryptic scribble in the corner caught his attention. _Thoen._ There was a question mark after the word but that was all. An internet search turned up nothing. His frustration and confusion ratcheted up a notch. _Could Dean have merely dreamt the shadows—a side effect from the concussion?_

Sam stood and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, his back popping as he worked out the kinks caused by the uncomfortable chair. Unwilling to disturb Dean as he slept, Sam slipped out the door, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as the door shut against his back. He quickly scrolled through his list of numbers and hit "Send" when he found the one he wanted.

"_Calling this time-a night, this had better be damned good."_ The growl was a shade more gravelly and raspy than usual.

"Bobby, sorry to be calling so late."

"_Sam? What can I do for ya? Somethin' tells me this ain't a social call."_

"Yeah, guess you know me too well, huh?"

"_Know you AND that brother of yours too well. What's wrong?"_ There was a hint of worry in his tone.

"I don't know. I don't know if anything's wrong really."

"_Well, that's about as clear as mud."_

"I'm here with Dean in the hospital, and I need…"

"_Wait—hospital? Ah, hell, which one of ya got hurt? Or is it both of you?"_

"Just Dean. We were on a job, and he got tossed around. I was worried about a blow he took to the head so I brought him in. Concussion, cracked ribs—well, they were just cracked when I brought him in—a badly sprained wrist."

"_So he's gonna be okay then?"_

"Yeah, but…"

"_But?"_

"There's something weird going on at this hospital—maybe."

"_Why am I not surprised? You two could find trouble at a tea party."_

Sam couldn't help but chuckle. After all, it was basically the truth. He proceeded to explain Dean's phone call, his headlong flight down the stairwell that further aggravated his injuries, and his assertions about the mysterious shadows. "And I can't seem to find anything useful, Bobby. At least not on the computer or even in Dad's journal. That's why I called you."

"_You sure this is nothin' more than the concussion talkin'?"_

Sam sighed and began to pace as Bobby echoed his earlier thoughts. "Honestly? I don't know. Dean's had concussions before which I know you know. We've sacked out at your place enough times recovering. They've made him loopy, disoriented—sometimes even belligerent. But they've never put this hunted look in his eyes. Besides, my gut says something weird's going on."

"_And nothin' comes up on EMF you say?"_

"Not so far."

"_Not too many things out there that stealthy. Your daddy's journal really was no help?"_

"He's got a page on bogeymen and bugbears. And of course, Daevas. I don't see much else that refers to shadows. Oh, and he has one word scribbled in the corner of the page on bogeymen. It says 'Thoen' but there's a question mark next to it."

Bobby sucked in a breath. _"Death Shadows."_

(SN) (SN) (SN)

_He was running. Full out running. Quivering legs pumping. Muscles stretching and cramping in protest. Breath bellowing in huge, desperate gulps, sawing viciously across the back of his raw throat as he tried to escape his predator._

The prone hunter shifted restlessly on the bed, arms and legs twitching, eyelids fluttering.

_Terror filled him as he realized the futility. They were merely playing with him. Surrounding him. Dark tendrils poking and prodding, offering acid kisses that burned like fire. Teasing him…before they devoured him…_

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "Death Shadows? Bobby, what're you talking about?"

"_Thoen. They're Death Shadows. It's an obscure reference which is why there isn't more in the journal. From what you described, I think your brother's been targeted somehow. Did he say they touched him, Sam?"_

"No—no, he didn't say…but…"

A stifled cry from inside Dean's room suddenly drew Sam's attention. "Bobby, hang on." Sam turned and rushed the few paces back to the door, sending it flying inward with an outstretched arm. He skidded to a stop at the sight that greeted him.

An unbroken ring of fluidly sinuous, roiling, ink-black shadows surrounded Dean's bed.

TBC…


	12. Predator After Prey

Well, we've almost come to the end. There's likely only one more chapter after this. I just want to thank everyone for reading. Also, I'd like to again thank everyone for their kind wishes and words this week on the loss of my beloved dog, Levi. All of you and your words have meant a lot to me.

Vanessa

* * *

Predator (A Septolet)

Prowling.  
Closing in.  
Predator after prey.

Sensing vulnerability,  
lips curve  
into wicked grin.  
Victory?

© 2009, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

"Oh, shit! Dean! Bobby!" Sam yelled into the phone, "Bobby, they're all around him. All around his damn bed!" The young hunter saw his brother shift and suddenly sit upright with a harsh gasp. Seeing Dean flail as he tried to get off the bed, tried to get away, Sam called out, "No! Dean, stay where you are! Don't move!" His attention was pulled back to the phone though his gaze remained fixed on the sight before him.

"_Sam? Sam! What're they doing—the shadows?"_

"Nothing. I mean, they're surrounding the bed but they're not really _doing_ anything." He watched with alarm as Dean shuddered and sank backward on the bed. "At least I don't think they're doing anything. Just staring at Dean."

"_You have a salt ring around the bed?"_

"Yes."

"_Good. That's probably what's keepin' 'em at bay for now. They're not paying any attention to you at all?"_

"No."

"_I think he's been marked."_

"What does that mean?"

"_It means they only have eyes for him. For the time being, you don't exist."_

Through the shadows, Sam saw Dean's hands fly to his temples and his brother rolled as if to get off the bed. "Dean, no! Just…just stay where you are! God, Bobby, they're not touching him or anything but he looks like he's in pain. Are they doing something to him I can't see?" The young hunter's voice was bordered on frantic.

"_Sam! Listen—listen to me. Someone's got to be controlling these Death Shadows. Someone summoned them, sicced them on your brother. You gotta find the controller."_

Nearly mesmerized by the sinuous, writhing mass undulating around his brother's bed, Sam muttered into the phone, "I—I can't—can't leave Dean alone in here with…them."

"_Dean's safe for now—you hear me? But it's not gonna last. They've had a taste of him. You've got to find and kill whoever the hell summoned them."_

"How? How do I do that? It could be anyone."

"_Hell, boy, I gotta lot of things rattling around in this head of mine, but I'm no Jeopardy contestant. I need to look at some books. I can tell you one thing, it's always a woman—the shell of a woman anyway. Someone he's recently had contact with."_

"Wait—a woman? I…I think I might know who it is, Bobby! You're sure he's safe for now?"

"_As long as that salt line holds."_

"How do I stop her when I find her?"

"_Gimme ten minutes. I'll call ya back."_

(SN) (SN) (SN)

His surroundings were sliding in and out of focus as his eyes rolled around in loosely in their sockets, desperate to comprehend the shapes and shadows around him. Pain spiked through his head as a chilling, constant susurration filled Dean's mind.

_Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour._

Over the menace-filled whispering, he heard Sam's voice yelling to him, telling him to stay where he was, and Dean forced himself to settle, curling awkwardly into as much of a ball as he could with his injuries. Instinct continued to scream at him to run—to get away—and his heart raced, breath sawing in and out.

_Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour. Hungry. Devour._

Dean gasped as the throbbing in his head intensified and his hands flew to his temples. He rolled onto his side, preparing to bolt, when Sam's ringing command stole across the room.

"_Dean, no! Just…just stay where you are!"_

He stopped, innate trust in his baby brother rising to the fore.

"_I'm gonna be right back, okay? Whatever you do, don't get off the bed!"_

His words were nearly drowned out as the malevolent hissing grew louder.

_Hungry. Devour._

(SN) (SN) (SN)

"I'm gonna be right back, okay? Whatever you do, don't get off the bed!"

Sam watched his older sibling for a second before slipping out of the room. He hurried toward the Nurses' Station a little ways down the corridor. A nurse he didn't recognize was seated on a stool behind the high counter.

"Excuse me…"

She looked up and blinked. "Yes?"

"I'm looking for Nurse Perdue."

"I haven't seen her, sorry."

"But she was here a little while ago. You don't know where she could be?"

"She's probably at lunch."

"Do you know where she'd be having lunch?"

The nurse eyed him up and down, a look of suspicion finally eddying across her face. "Are you supposed to be up here this time of night?"

"I've got permission from Dr. Ward—call him and ask. I just need to ask Nurse Perdue a question…about my brother in 4-22."

Still showing a certain amount of skepticism, the nurse raised an eyebrow and stared at him for a moment before relenting. "If she brown-bagged her lunch, she's probably down in the break room at the far end of the hall." The woman pointed toward the opposite end of the corridor in which they were standing. "Otherwise, she went to the cafeteria."

Hoping Ursula had indeed brown-bagged her lunch rather than opt for hospital food, Sam hurried down the middle of the hallway, searching the plaques next to the doors for one that said 'Break Room'. When he came to one marked "Lounge", he figured he'd reached his destination. Sam pushed the door open as quietly as possible, just wide enough for him to inch through.

To his relief, the room was empty except for Ursula Perdue who sat at a small table near a miniature refrigerator. An tired-looking egg salad sandwich and a cup of tar-like coffee sat on the table in front of her, all but forgotten as she concentrated on a piece of paper in her hand. Her lips moved as she read the words printed there.

Sam rested a hand on the gun at the small of his back. "Call them off!"

Ursula's head snapped up at the sound of his voice. "What the hell? What're you _doing_ in here?"

"I said call them off—now!"

A fierce scowl descended across her face, and she shoved out of her chair. "Are you crazy? What in God's name are you yammering on about?"

"The Death Shadows! I know you're summoning them. What's that paper in your hand? Is that how you're doing it?"

Outraged, she spluttered and spit, "It's none of your business what this paper is!"

Sam dove for her and grabbed her wrist, certain the paper she held would hold the answers he sought. He tightened his grip until her fingers went lax and the paper fell away. The young hunter caught mid-flutter and his gaze quickly roamed over the words. His breath stuttered. It wasn't the incantation he'd been expecting. It was a "Dear Jane" letter. Apparently, illustrated in the choppy loops of handwriting, the man in Ursula's life had found a new love and was moving on.

"How dare you!"

Dropping her wrist as if it was suddenly red hot, Sam backed away and muttered, "I'm sorry."

"I should call Security on you. Sounds to me like you should be locked up!"

A strong sense of foreboding slithered up Sam's spine. He spun on his heel and rushed to the door. "Oh, God. I gotta get back to my brother."

Ignoring Perdue's continued ranting, Sam streaked down the hallway back to Dean's room, his long legs eating up the distance with ease. He slammed through the door and skidded to a halt, breath hitching. The Death Shadows still performed their wicked dance all around Dean's bed. Worse, Nurse Monica Martin stood in the middle of the room, a smile of delight gracing her face. As she stepped toward the bed, Sam reached for his gun, bringing it easily to bear on the nurse.

"Stay away from my brother."

The nurse froze but she didn't turn. Instead her head rotated grotesquely 180 degrees until she was looking directly at him, an unholy light of hunger flickering in her green eyes. Her gaze traveled impassively to the gun then back to his face.

"There's nothing you can do," she hissed silkily. "He's mine now."

TBC…


	13. Battle Cry

Well, here we are at the final chapter. I surely hope everyone has enjoyed the ride and that this wrap-up chapter satisfies in every way. Thanks to one and all who took the time to read and also those who left lovely reviews. They were appreciated beyond belief.

Vanessa

Now on with the show....

* * *

Battle Cry (An Octelle Poem)

I will fight to the very end,  
stand strong to protect and defend.  
Conquer now a growing threat.  
Challenge not to go unmet.  
Don a calm and brave veneer,  
when evil strikes far too near.  
I will fight to the very end,  
Stand strong to protect and defend.

© 2009, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

"Stay the hell away from him!"

The creature, for indeed it was a creature and not an innocent hot red-headed nurse, merely smirked, garnet lips twisting obscenely, at Sam while simultaneously taking a step forward, closer to Dean's bed. "I think not. I'm hungry."

Sam's expression turned colder and more deadly, and he pulled the gun from the small of his back, quickly taking aim. Before his finger could tighten on the trigger though a midnight tentacle from one of the Thoen near the bed wrapped itself around his wrist, and Sam cried out in pain as his wrist and hand blistered from an intense cold beyond belief. The gun fell from his grasp and skidded across the floor with a metallic thwang. The masquerading Monica took a step closer to the ring of salt.

Now weaponless, the tall young hunter acted instinctively and dived toward the monster wearing human skin, making his toned and muscular body a missile. The tackle was dead center and she—no—it went down with an unearthly screech, hitting the floor with a gelatinous squelch.

Sam fought to pin her—it—in place but it proved to be an almost impossible task as it slithered, bucked, and shuddered beneath him. With otherworldly strength, the creature maneuvered out from under Sam and sent him ass-over-teakettle across the room. He hit the wall with enough force to force the breath from his lungs.

"Sam!" Dean's weak call echoed from his left.

"'m fine," wheezed Sam as he quickly gained his feet, set his stance, and executed another tackle, again sending the lead Thoen to the floor with him sprawled on top.

"What the hell is going on in here?" This time the voice thundered from the doorway. It was Nurse Ursula Perdue.

Too busy struggling with the monster beneath him, Sam ignored her indignant demand. His cell phone chose that moment to start ringing startling him. With a move that would do a double-jointed circus performer proud, the hunter managed to extract the phone from his pocket and send it sliding across the floor toward the stunned hospital worker. "Answer it!" he barked. Beneath his fingers, small areas of the human skin fissured and cracked revealing blackness beneath before becoming whole once more.

Ursula, who had been standing frozen a foot inside the door, bent down, snatched up the cell, and flipped it open. "H-H-Hello?"

"_Who is this?"_ a gruff male voice growled over the airwaves.

"N-Nurse P-Perdue."

"_Where's Sam?"_

"He…he…um…" Behind Ursula suddenly came another voice as Dr. Mike Ward pushed through the door and froze.

"What the hell?" The doctor could hardly believe the horror-filled tableau before his eyes.

A sharp elbow connected with Sam's nose and warm blood began to flow. "Somebody talk to…the guy…on the phone…dammit." He sniffed and gurgled against the salty thick fluid decorating his upper lip and dripping into his mouth.

Seeing the cell phone in Ursula's hand and the utterly blank look on her face, mesmerized as she was by the writhing shadows and wrestling humans, Mike reached out and extracted the phone from her lax fingers. "Hello?"

"_Oh, for the love of God, who's __**this**__ now? And where the hell is Sam?"_

"This is Dr. Mike Ward. Sam is…is fighting someone…" A low and gutteral growl reverberated through the room. "…make that some_thing_."

The caller's breath hitched slightly before he said, "Damn. Tell him he has to unmask her…it."

Over the din, Mike called out, "Sam, whoever this is says you have to unmask it." _Whatever that means._ Mike's mind was racing in twenty different directions.

Sam let out a harsh cry as the Thoen bent his right pinky finger sideways, snapping it. "Great," he panted, "How?" The creature bucked beneath him, nearly unseating him. Sam tightened his hold and felt wiry undulations under the human skin. It rent wide in places, and this time stayed that way.

"How?" muttered Mike into the phone.

"Acetic acid," growled the disembodied voice, "Douse her good—especially her face—with acetic acid."

Mike repeated the caller's instructions, watching as rivulets of sweat rolled down Sam's face and dripped off his chin. He wanted to move forward—wanted to help—but didn't know where or how to begin.

The thing underneath Sam suddenly twisted violently from Sam's hold and rolled away making a beeline for the salt ring. Seeking fingers missed the white grains by a half an inch. The hunter yanked it backward by its ankle and once more fell on top of the beast. "Where? Where can. I. Get. Some?" he gasped. The fight was beginning to take its toll.

Nurse Perdue suddenly shook herself out of her stupor, her eyes going wide. "I-I know where I can get some. I'll be right back." The nurse took off out of the room.

Dr. Ward jumped when the creature Sam was struggling with let out a hiss and flipped the hunter onto his back. It springboarded off of Sam's chest, dived for the ring of salt, and this time managed to reach it, clawing a line through the white grains and consequently breaking the seal of the circle. The Death Shadows converged with glee, and Dean began to cry out in pain as the black tongues whipped out and touched, tasted, burned. Mike dropped the cell phone and dove forward; this time joining Sam in the tackling of this abomination. Its snapping growls and grunts combined with Dean's pain-filled cries and echoed throughout the room.

Without warning, a cold liquid rained down all around them. The pungent and overpowering odor of vinegar filled the hospital room. The lead Thoen began to squirm and smoke beneath the two men. Sam palmed the faux nurse's chin and shoved upward, allowing the clear liquid to splash liberally over her face.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the creature screamed in agony as its facial façade began to melt. As soon as the last bit of gummy white flesh dropped away, the Death Shadows turned away from Dean en masse. Sam yelled, "Roll!" a split second before the murderous, ravenous shadows sinuously writhed around and enshrouded their former controller. In mere moments, the Death Shadows devoured one of their own, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of goop and a shredded nurse's uniform.

Silence reigned as all three of the men present fought to catch their breath. Into the silence, Ursula murmured quietly, "So there really was something wrong with Room 4-22 all this time." Her fingers tightened on the now empty bottle in her grasp.

Sam coughed and swiped the back of his good hand under his nose, smearing the blood there across his cheek. "Yeah. And we just killed that thing with…vinegar?" The look on his face was priceless.

Dr. Ward couldn't help it; he chuckled. "Yup. Acetic acid. Vinegar's key ingredient. Vinegar was discovered more than 10,000 years ago, and you'd be surprised what it can do. Soak a pearl in it and the pearl will dissolve. I think Cleopatra won some kind of bet doing that. And a chicken bone will turn rubbery if you soak it in vinegar for three or four days."

Sam shot a glance over at his brother who executed a "who knew" shrug albeit very carefully.

Realizing his inner geek was showing, Mike shook his head ruefully and rose to his feet, holding a hand out to Sam to help him up. "C'mon, let's get you two out of this room; it's starting to smell like a rancid salad bar in here." He smiled at the two brothers though his eyes remained full of questions. "Looks like I have a bit of doctoring to do—again."

An unusually subdued Nurse Perdue chimed in with, "I'll get a wheelchair."

Dean started to protest but a precipitous dizzy spell combined with a fierce look from the stern-faced nurse quickly dispelled any hint of orneriness. When the nurse returned moments later, he slumped down in the wheelchair obediently if not a little sullenly. _Knew I hated hospitals._

While Dean suffered through the indignity, Sam retrieved his cell phone from the floor.

"Bobby?"

"_Sam! Thank God. I take it it worked?"_

"Uh…yeah…does that mean you weren't sure it would?" Sam's fingers cautiously probed his throbbing nose.

"_The texts were damnably vague—which ain't all that unusual. You boys any worse for wear?"_

Sam stared at his red and blistered hand with its pinky sticking out at an odd and obscenely wrong angle and felt nausea churn in his belly. "Just a little. Dr. Ward's standing by now to patch us back up."

"Get to it then. I'll call ya idjits sometime tomorrow."

The younger man acquiesced and said goodbye before flipping the phone closed.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Mike sprung them both from hospital hell at 11:00 the next morning after insisting they stay and recuperate a bit. He pushed Dean's wheelchair to Patient Discharge where Sam was waiting with the Impala running.

As the older Winchester opened the door and settled himself very gingerly into the passenger seat, the doctor spoke, "Can I just ask one question?"

"Sure, Doc," rasped Dean.

"You guys—you…uh…deal…with stuff like we saw last night all the time, don't you?"

The brothers glanced at each other before Dean replied, "Yeah, you could say that, Doc."

"Nurse Perdue told me this morning that she's retiring. She said after last night…well…can't say that I blame her, ya know. Almost wish I was old enough to retire. So you guys will be all right?" His concerned gaze traveled from Dean's various bruises, bandages, and wraps to Sam's splinted finger, gauze-encased hand, and bruised nose.

The boys answered simultaneously. "We'll be fine."

Mike nodded as if he was having a little trouble believing their stock, tried-and-true answer. He shut the door after Dean was settled and offered a small salute. Mike watched the Impala coast away with a thoughtful look on his face.

Inside the car, Sam looked over at his brother. "You doin' okay over there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just glad to be outta that freakin' place."

Sam pulled up to a four-way stop intersection at the same time as the flashy silver Corvette from the day before. The Impala's engine suddenly revved as if Sam were flooring then releasing the gas pedal. The powerful vehicle, metal and leather alike, vibrated around them both almost hard enough to aggravate their various and sundry injuries.

"Dude, stop that! What the hell are you doing with the car?"

"I'm not doing anything!"

The phenomenon continued as the Corvette passed through the intersection and proceeded a half a block up the street before disappearing around a corner. When the other car was out of sight, the Impala's engine returned to its normal rumbly growl.

Dean tossed a puzzled glare at his younger brother. "What the hell was that all about?"

Sam, equally puzzled, shrugged. "Beats me. I wasn't even touching the gas."

"I'll have to give her a once over when we get to the next motel."

The younger man drove through the intersection and followed the signs to the nearest state route. They were only fifteen minutes into their current journey when Sam pushed his bangs off his forehead and said in a way too casual voice, "Hey, you know, when we stop for lunch, I-I was thinking maybe we should get some fried chicken."

"Fried chicken? Since when do _you_ want fried ch…" Dean snapped his fingers as the proverbial lightbulb went on. "Wait a minute—you wanna try that freaky thing with the vinegar and the chicken bone, don't you?"

Sam squirmed in his seat, looking sheepish. "No, it just sounded—okay, yes, I wanted to give it a try. Is that a crime? And a chicken bone is easier to come by than a cultured pearl."

Dean groaned and covered his eyes with his good hand. "Oh, God. I feel like I'm living through an episode of 'When Geeks Unite'. Someone save me."

"Oh, come on. Seriously, dude, you can't tell me you don't wanna give it a try…"

The Winchester brothers made it a full hour on the road before finally pulling over at a place that served fried chicken. Afterward, they made a quick stop at the nearest store for a bottle of white vinegar.

_**Fin**_


End file.
